Masquerades All the Way Down
by shipwrecked souls
Summary: If there is one thing he has learned, it is that the world he lives in is not one built on truth. He can attest to this personally—both his past and present selves. (FrUK; WWII era; alternating flashback chapters.)
1. respected

❆ **_Masquerades_****_ All the Way Down_** ❆

* * *

— **Chapter One **—

**_1500s_**

**_Paris_**

_"Well, the rate of blood loss would be one critical factor," Francis begins. _

_There is a certain gleam to his eyes, cold and distant like the night skies of their childhood__—__and it __startles Arthur more than he can admit to anyone, much less himself. Around him, the room is spinning. Velvet and leather and gilded ornamentation converge __into an incoherent __blur, leaving him nothing to blame but the copious alcohol. _

_Vaguely, he tries to remember why he is even in France's home __in the first place. When he draws a blank, __he reluctantly forces himself to shove the bottle away._

Get your shit together, _he tells himself._

_France does not appear to notice. His attention is undivided, fixed solely upon the sword in his hands, the one that he turns over and over __as delicately as if it were a newborn child. One of his newest possessions, Arthur guesses. And certainly his favorite._

_On the table in front of them, the sheath lays abandoned.__ As England watches the other Nation warily, he proceeds to __run an affectionate finger down the length of the polished steel._

_"What would happen next," France continues, looking up, "depends on the location of the injury. If the wound happens to rupture a major artery__, then you may only have a few moments left to live. After all, I suspect that __my beloved __is_ _rather... efficient at her task, if I do say so myself. Although, under certain circumstances, your death may be prolonged as you slowly bleed out."_

_He smiles. _

_"Of course, this is all harmless speculation."_

_England knits his brows together distrustfully. Over the white noise in his own mind, he can barely hear himself think. __"Are you... threatening me?"_

_"You asked me about it out of curiosity, actually,__" France answers smoothly, gently sliding the sword back into its sheath. His posture is strange—cautious yet relaxed, vigilant yet indifferent. An uncharacteristic attribute which still defines him, at least in those moments. "About this very sword. Although I may have unwittingly __strayed from the original topic of conversation."_

_And then he shrugs infuriatingly._

_"F__orgive me for doing so."_

_The other Nation does not forgive him. _

_Instead, England rises to his feet, chair __scraping against the cold floor with an earsplitting screech. Leaning forward, the dancing torchlight floods the __harsh features of his expression and bathes them in tainted gold. He can see Francis clearly now, __flaxen hair and __ashen cheekbones, __gazing up with that maddening smile playing on his lips and that ever-present glint in his eyes_—_the only life to be found in a sea of dead stars. A__ persona untouched by etiquette or sense. __It tempts Arthur__ into a feeling of significance, __as if no other soul aside from him has__ ever seen this side of him. __But he knows better._

_He is far from being the only enemy within these borders._

_"Yes?" France presses._

_England sneers__. Leans in close, so close that their foreheads almost touch and their eyes are mere inches apart. Come another century, __he might have listened to the voice in his head—the voice that tells him to stop, to reconsider __the lies he tells himself, to understand. But the voice drowns once again, for those lies are his foundation and without them he falls._

_"I like it when you act this way," he laughs._

* * *

**.**

**.**

**.**

* * *

_and then he adds another brick to the kingdom in his mind._

* * *

**.**

**.**

**.**

* * *

**\- A/N -**

**Pardon the ambiguity—it'll all make sense later on. Probably.**

**I know that was incredibly short, but like I mentioned in the summary, ****the chapters alternate between italicized flashbacks like this and the WWII era where the main story ****takes place. Where the next chapter begins, France will already have fallen to German forces—leaving the personification, in this story, to be taking refuge at Arthur's place.**

**Anyway, welcome! A few things I want to clarify before we get started:**

**_Characters:_ Aside from one brief cameo from America, it's pretty much going to be these two the whole way through. So there's that.**

_**Genres:**_** Hurt/Comfort, Drama, a great deal of angst and a teaspoon of romance.**

_**Rating:**_** T. For language. And, uh, a mildly sexual interaction near the end.**

_**Length:**_** A bit over 20,000 words.**

_**Disclaimer(s):**_** Possible unintentional historical inaccuracies. I dunno lol.**

**Oh, also.**

**Keep an eye out for that sword. **

**It will show up again.**

**~ Reviews are appreciated ~**


	2. Freeze

— **Chapter Two **—

_**July 13, 1940**_

_**London**_

"I hate it when you're like this," England scowls.

The door stands ajar in the open entryway, early dawn light slipping through gaps in the shining floorboards. France says nothing, only watches as the other Nation reaches down to pull off his polished shoes and set them on the nearby rack. They still seem almost pristine, he notices, as if they never left the house at all. He must have taken a taxi to the meetings in the dead of night.

As per usual.

Without him.

Francis stands back, arms crossed. Muttering under his breath, the other Nation shuts the door behind him as the sunlight vanishes and the room is abruptly cast into a somber darkness. It matches his mood perfectly, France contemplates bitterly. There are so many things he wants to say at that very moment—half-baked accusations and tired arguments, questions he dares not voice and unexpressed regrets that will never see the light of day. And then some part of him, the part of him that is sick of playing games, wants to end this for good, right there and then. Wants to back Arthur into a corner and not leave without his answers. Yet in the end, he fights the urge until it passes.

After all, it all boils down to one simple question.

"Why do you never tell me anything?" France demands. "_You_ started this."

It is England's turn to take his time answering, as he hangs his coat on the stand and deepens his scowl. When he finally looks up again, his jaw is set and a hard glint is settling in his emerald eyes.

"You're still angry, aren't you?" he replies flatly. "Typical. Look, you're not even part of the war effort anymore."

"Are you just going to—"

"Come back when you're willing to do more than just point fingers, and then we'll talk. I'll be off making some tea and watering my plants in the garden."

England takes a step forward—an almost challenging gesture, as if daring the other Nation to block his path. But France does nothing. His hands stay at his sides, and the only reaction he offers is a stare.

Before he has the chance to respond, England quickly brushes past and disappears into the hallway.

France stares after him. And then he closes his eyes and slumps against the wall.

* * *

He finds him standing among a bed of tulips, a pair of pruning shears in his hands and a watering can on the ground beside him. _Empty. _Despite his approaching footsteps, England makes no attempt to acknowledge him.

To France, this quietude is all too familiar.

There are times when silence appears as a void, an all-encompassing chasm that grows wider with each passing moment. Other times, it feels like quicksand—restless, deadly, _hungry_. And then there is now.

This silence feels like the churning seas.

In the end, France finds himself gazing at the other man for much too long. As England tilts his head, he notes the way that his hair catches the sunrise, painted gold like the fields they used to roam—two kingdoms and two souls, immortals under different monarchies with paths that crossed far too much and far too little. For a moment, he tries to focus on _just that_ and ignore the claws squeezing his chest. But as much as he wants to put the situation into perspective, it still feels horrible somehow.

_He_ still feels horrible somehow.

The first sign England offers for the awareness of his presence comes in the form of a deep sigh. As France stiffens, he hears shuffling and shoves his hands inside his coat pockets defensively. He can see the tulips more clearly now, faded reds and blushing pinks, petals folded like closed hearts reaching for the sunrise sky. They rustle as Arthur stands, and bow against his legs with their leaves touching the soil. _Patient._

To his surprise, England is the one to break the silence.

"Yes?"

A certain hesitance underlies his tone, and his eyes are distracted. France does not blame him.

"I came for answers."

"And I predicted as such."

"So then," he presses, steeling his resolve. "Will you entertain me?"

England crosses his arms, looking irritated. "Well, that depends entirely on your question."

"You already know what my question is," Francis retorts, gritting his teeth. "What _all_ of my questions are, in fact." His voice is starting to rise with his indignation, and yet he welcomes it, makes no attempt to stop his anger from escaping into the predawn fog. "About those meetings, about the armistice, about Pétain and the man who granted him full executive power. Laval, the orchestrator behind this new... this new _puppet state_. Laval, who—"

"You already know everything you need to know," England interrupts. "If you recall, I only agreed to shelter you in London for the time being. Nothing more. And hence, that is all you are entitled to."

Arthur's expression is conflicted, torn between polar extremities in a clash of emotions. Despite his cold exterior, something else in his eyes shines through. _Exhaustion._

But France's patience is rapidly wearing thin, and his sympathy erodes with it.

"So is this it?" he scoffs at last.

Abruptly, England snaps back to attention.

"Is this all I am to you?" France cries, leaning back against the garden screen door. "Diplomatic necessities? _Bureaucracy? _Oh, Angleterre, if only I had realized earlier how far we have fallen!"

A dangerous glint relights the old fire in England's eyes. He takes one hostile step forward, and then another, the pruning shears still clutched tightly in his hand. But the anger is lost on his long-time rival. Chin held high, a dogged stubbornness about his bearing, Francis stares right back into the face of the other Nation.

Cold. Unflinching.

"I suppose I am nothing more to you than dead weight," he continues bitterly. "And here I thought we had grown past the pettier sides of our antagonism."

England nearly drops the shears. "_Petty?_" he splutters. "How can you call a thousand years of war petty? I'll tell you what—"

"Yes," France muses, tilting his head. "Wars started by kings who came and went. But we never left, Arthur. _We_ were always here. We are still some of the closest things to eternity that sentience allows for."

"You're missing the fucking point."

"Really? Me?"

He stands only a few steps away from Francis now, the air between them as thick as a wall.

"Yes, you," England growls. "You think you know everything, don't you? Smug bastard. Well, let me tell you something. You're not the only one who hates the situation we're in. I'm just more reasonable about it. And, contrary to what you think—"

His voice abruptly catches, and he quickly ducks his head. The rest of his words come as a mumble.

"You're not... dead weight to me."

"Really?" France repeats, narrowing his eyes. "Why, I would never have realized, what with the way you act."

"Now, hold on a minute."

"You used to see me as an obstacle. As something to be overcome. I was a fool to think that the years have changed us for the better. Because now I... I am merely a burden to you."

"_Stop._"

"And you have never truly trusted me. Not then, not now."

"Francis, stop," England interrupts, gritting his teeth. His breath is coming hard and fast, blood rushing to fill the space beneath his pale cheeks. "Just stop."

France raises an eyebrow. Tries to keep his glare, notices Arthur's expression, hesitates.

Pauses.

"You could at least try to understand," England mutters in a low voice. "Besides, they... they wouldn't let me..."

He looks away.

Something finally shifts on Francis's face, and he lowers his gaze as well. Perhaps not understanding. Perhaps not forgiveness. Perhaps not yet, perhaps not completely, and perhaps never. But certainly something like regret.

"I just thought that you..." France begins lamely, then shakes his head.

His voice is faintly hoarse.

"You just thought I was betraying you in a way?" England finishes softly.

He nods. Whether the gesture is out of surprise or embarrassment, he may never know. "But not only me," Francis mumbles. "Something else."

"Meaning?"

It has been a long time since Arthur has seen him like this, so quiet and so tense.

France lets out a halfhearted laugh. "Nothing. You would find it ridiculous if I told you."

"I won't. I swear."

He gazes off into the distance for a long moment, as if considering, then takes a deep breath.

There had never been a decision for him to make in the first place. The path had already been chosen for him. After all, he can only bear the weight for so long.

"I thought that you were... turning your back on our relationship."

Dread begins to settle in England's stomach, and a rush of contradictory thoughts flash through his mind. "Our what?"

"Our... you know."

Cold sweat abruptly breaks out along the spine of his back—and yet at the same time, an uncomfortably warm sensation is slowly creeping up his neck. "_What?_"

Letting his hands fall to his sides, Francis sighs and closes his eyes. "Never mind."

It sounds like an admission of defeat, and it does not feel right. Not from the mouth of the proud man he thought he knew.

"No, wait," Arthur says quickly. He steps forward again, this time so close that their faces are only inches apart. "I... I want to know what you mean by that."

Francis hunches his shoulders defensively. "It means what it means."

"Look, I know we've... I know we've fucked before, on a few occasions—"

"—On more than a few occasions."

"But... that's not..." Arthur protests weakly.

An uneasy silence settles upon them. Eventually, Francis raises his gaze again, but when the other Nation refuses to meet his eyes, he tentatively places a hand on his shoulders. Arthur does not resist. As he hesitantly slides his fingers down the length of his coat, his eyes flit to the ground. Beneath the fabric, England's heart is pounding loud and clear.

And then he suddenly pulls away.

"Sorry," France mumbles, backing toward the screen door.

When England only raises an eyebrow at him, he mutters, "I... I should go now."

He tries to slide the door open a grand total of five times before he finally realizes that, somehow, it had bolted itself shut in the time he spent outside. Cursing, he attempts to fiddle with the latch to no avail.

"Here," England volunteers from over his shoulder, taking the lever from him.

After a long period of painstaking tinkering, the door finally opens. "The parts don't work as smoothly as they used to," he huffs. "They're so old that they were probably around for longer than the Vikings. At least it's painted fine, but I should have taken care of the rust first. Not as easy to fix things underneath once they're coated in paint."

France is about to thank him. And then he stops and realizes something.

Slowly, his gaze travels from the latch, to England, to himself, and then back again.

At last, he chuckles. A genuine one this time, but still bordered with that same tinge of sadness.

"Are you talking about me or you?" he asks.

"I don't know what you mean," Arthur says innocently. And then he turns around, head high, to face the rising sun once more.

His hair still looks golden.

* * *

.

.

.

* * *

_silence is neither friend nor remedy. he learns this only once he starts to suffocate._

* * *

.

.

.

* * *

**\- A/N -**

**You'll see this pattern emerge again and again during the course of the next few chapters. Someone throws a tantrum, both of them get pissed, someone's feelings get hurt, bonus points for pseudo-philosophy and sexual tension. Apparently, that's the extent of my writing abilities, haha.**

**_Reference(s):_**

**[1] The armistice of June 22, 1940 split France into two zones, the _zone occupée_ and the _z__one libre_ (also known as Vichy France). Shortly after, the French Third Republic was dissolved.**

**~ Reviews are appreciated ~**


	3. doubted

— **Chapter Three **—

_**1630s**_

_**Westminster, London**_

_"Arthur," France asks nonchalantly, "what do you think about war?"_

_England tenses, pointedly averting his eyes. Even so, he can still feel the weight of his gaze_—_on his face, on his neck, on the shadows of his hairline, __silently probing the creases of his frown as if committing them to memory. The tone of his voice is light, but he is not fooled. He knows Francis much too well by now, and he suspects that the other Nation recognizes this._

_So instead, he returns with another question._

_"In general?" he presses. "Or do you only mean our wars?"_

_He says this as if their wars are merely personal quarrels._

_France bites his lip. A strange shadow passes over his eyes for one fleeting moment, and then it is gone. __"Only ours," he finally responds. "I was... curious."_

_"Well, in that case, curiosity must find you more easily than it does me__," England remarks dryly."Pray tell, what do you exactly intend to gain from this?"_

_At first, he receives no reply. Instead, France only shuffles his feet and sighs, staring out into the city with an expression that borders_—_peculiarly_—_on sorrow. England's gaze soon follows. The streets are filled with ghosts at this time of night, he muses. Ghosts of everything, of footsteps and voices and the light that once shone from gaps in the clouds. When the sun comes again, they will dissipate in the warmth, the alleys filled once more with movement and the faint stirrings of distant conversation. But sunrise is a long time coming, and too many ghosts still lie between them._

_In other words, he is cursed to remain in conversation. Outside, in the cold, and f__or God-knows-how-long._

_England does not realize that the other Nation is moving on until he is almost out of sight, and even then, he has to sprint to catch up. As the buildings they pass __disappear into the darkness behind them, he finally manages to fall into step beside France and regain his breath. "You never answered my question," he insists, panting._

_France gives him a brief sidelong glance. "Oh, I will. If you answer mine first, that is."_

_Somehow, __England realizes, the bastard was walking even faster now. Despite his shortness of breath, he struggles to quicken his pace__. At this rate, he had no chance of keeping up, let alone engaging in conversation. __H__e wonders for a moment whether Francis is intentionally doing this, whether Francis even wants to hear his answer—and then he releases a short, harsh sound, the mockery of a bitter l__augh._

_Of course. Francis is_ _afraid of his answer._

_He should have known._

_At long last, they stop. There on the street corner sits Arthur's home, __the first of a long line of Westminster __residences stretching away into the distance. As England passes France on his way to the door, he glances over his shoulder one last time. And then he watches the other Nation lower his eyes._

_"What... what are those flowers you planted by the entrance?" Francis asks._

_Out of all the things he expects him to say, this is not one of them._

_"Er, you mean these?" Taken aback, Arthur gestures to a row of bright yellow flowers behind him. "Tickseeds, I believe they are called."_

_"Ah," Francis says, raising an eyebrow. "__Pretty. __Although personally, I still prefer lilies or roses."_

_And then he walks away into the shadows, leaving England baffled on the doorstep behind him._

* * *

**.**

**.**

**.**

* * *

_later that night, he remembers something. these flowers are native only to the New World._

* * *

**.**

**.**

**.**

* * *

**~ Reviews are appreciated ~**


	4. Accrete

_and the months pass—_

_one, two, five, nine, seventeen cycles__—_

* * *

.

.

.

* * *

— **Chapter Four **—

_**December 1941**_

It is the middle of the night when a sudden crash resounds beyond the door.

Eyes bleary, France startles awake. He hears a string of unintelligible curses outside as he wipes off the sweat beading on his brows, struggling to see through the impenetrable gloom. For a moment, his sight is blurry and his mind unfocused. Some part of him, it appears, refuses to let go of sleep despite its evident futility.

_And I had nightmares,_ he recalls, wincing as he pushes himself up on the bed. Nightmares sewn from growing shadows and dwindling light. Nightmares pierced by a feeling of all-consuming panic that had not possessed him in years.

The snowdrifts were hungry that night.

Far too acutely for peace of mind, he remembers the sensation of sinking and shivers involuntarily. In his dream, he had lashed out as soon as he fell, dug his heels desperately into the crumbling snow and raked his fingernails through the frost. But in spite of his struggle, he could still feel them dragging him deeper into the numbing cold—a cold so intense that it felt like flames licking at his skin.

And then, just before everything faded to black, he saw something from the corner of his peripheral vision. Could barely make out the faint outline of a figure, still, standing in the distance.

Silent. _Watching._

Another curse resonates from the hallway, making France quickly snap out of his trance. As his heart begins to thud, he slides quietly out of bed and begins tiptoeing across the wooden boards. Unfortunately for him, the house has seen more than its fair share of years—but he is cautious, and he manages to make it to the end of the room without so much as a sound.

_Careful, now._

Pressing an ear to the door, France listens.

At first, he picks up nothing. But then he hears a sigh, and a slight creak as the boards shift under someone's weight. There is no doubt about it now—England is right outside his bedroom. And from the crash that woke him, he guesses that the other Nation has just dropped something.

For a moment, he stands still, considering possibilities and weighing consequences. Through the door, he hears shuffling. Somehow, he knows that his time to act is running out fast. Dread begins encroaching upon his mind, but despite this, France takes a deep breath as he seemingly comes to a decision.

"Ah well," he mutters, "here goes nothing."

And then he grabs the handle and wrenches open the door.

The first thing that strikes him is the light—or rather, the lack thereof. With only moonlight for illumination, it takes him a second to recognize England's hunched figure in the lonely hallway. At the sight of France glaring at him from the doorway, the other man immediately freezes. Something drops from his hand and flutters to the carpet, and now that his eyes are adjusted to the darkness, France is finally able to see what they are.

_Papers._

He stares.

_No,_ he corrects. _Not just papers. __Documents._

France casts his wary gaze around the scene, disregarding England as he scrambles to pick them back up. In front of him, a small cardboard box sits on its side. Papers spill out onto the ground, crowded with tiny print but obscured by the dark. Almost as if they are taunting him. Suddenly, he finds a strange, desperate urge taking hold of him—the urge to step forward, to reach out, to snatch them from the shadows and ignore England's exasperated pleas. He would hold them up to the light as he always wished, and read the secrets that had been kept from him for _so damn long_. And perhaps, just perhaps, he would feel a step closer to liberation.

He does none of those things.

Instead, England bends down and whisks the documents from the floor, shoving them back into the box where they came from. There is an anxious, almost panicked edge to his movements, and something about it makes France even angrier. _What could you possibly be concerned about? _he wants to shout. _Why is it that after all this time, you still trust me so little?_

But he holds back.

"Where are you taking all this to?" France finally asks, nodding at the cardboard box.

His voice is soft. England looks away.

"None of your business," he mutters.

He watches as Arthur heaves the box back into his arms, moonlight catching the sharp angles of his weary face. _Maybe he is right__,_ offers some cursed part of his mind. And he hates himself for it almost immediately.

Silently, he imagines seizing that voice and shredding it into tiny, irreparable pieces. It works surprisingly well.

"Let me guess," France sighs, leaning against the doorframe. "These are the notes and outlines for all your precious meetings. Transcripts, perhaps."

"Well, actually—" England begins, before abruptly cutting himself off.

The other Nation raises his eyebrows at this, and his face instinctively heats.

"This is already the third time since August, Arthur," Francis continues, crossing his arms. "What are you up to?"

"Me?" he hisses. "What do _I_ have to explain?"

"For one, the fact that you have been transferring stacks of classified documents from your office to God-knows-where."

Box in arms, England backs toward the staircase defensively. "I've already told you that it's none of your business. Why would you need to know, anyway? What could you possibly do with the information? Stress over it? Why the _hell_ do you still care?"

_Because it hurts that you don't trust me,_ the same voice whispers.

"You tell me," France replies instead. He forces himself to shrug. "After all, I thought I was a guest, not a prisoner."

"You're not a guest. And you're not a fucking prisoner, either."

The box thumps against England's chest as he turns away and begins storming down the stairs, leaving an unsettled tension in his wake. France watches him go, his expression unreadable. The silence is unbearable under the stifling darkness.

And then, just before he vanishes from sight, Arthur suddenly stops.

"Look, France, just..."

For a moment, his voice falters. On the wall behind him, the shadow wrings its hands helplessly.

"Just go back to bed, alright?"

Francis bites his lip, noting that the other Nation no longer refers to him by his human name. "Yes, mother," he responds sarcastically.

A realization hits him in that moment, abrupt and seemingly arbitrary. _The dream._ Something about it is wrong. Something about it is agonizingly familiar. And that strange figure in the distance—obscured, faceless, anonymous, the one who watched him suffocate from behind a curtain of wind and snow—

For an instant, he feels as if he should know its name.

* * *

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

**_one year later_**

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

* * *

_**November 11, 1942**_

He waits until nightfall before setting out, pausing briefly at England's door only to make sure he is asleep. As the flitting shadows dart ominously on the walls around him, France takes to the staircase with practiced steps to begin his descent. This time, he manages to make it to the ground floor without so much as a creak. After countless nights of wandering through the house, practice has become perfect—and now, he is able to move through the halls as silently as a wraith.

Yet France does not feel accomplished. Because after all this time, he still has nothing to show for his efforts... and he is beginning to feel like a fool.

For the first few months, he made it a point to remain within the walls of the house, even as he hunted about for potential leads. After all, despite his increasing restlessness, he harbored no desire for Arthur to discover his movements.

But there was nothing of importance for him to find. And he made sure of this.

Then England began to disappear for longer and longer periods of time, eventually amounting to days and weeks on a regular basis. So France grew bolder, heading out of the house and pacing the streets of London by day—but still returning, always returning, by the light of the faded stars.

He bought a newspaper every now and then to satiate his curiosity, but it was never enough. At the end of each day, he remained every bit as useless as he was before. And although he occasionally pondered over scheduling an international call to one of his former allies, he suspected that no Nation would have the time—much less the patience—to deal with him.

Eventually, he learned to stop deceiving himself. There was no purpose to his roaming anymore, if there ever was, and his attempts at scrutiny were only ever a mockery of the word. All his 'searching', he realized dully, is the mere cursed progeny of his resentment—resentment that he is not doing more, that he cannot do more. That there _is_ nothing for him to do.

But habits are hard to break, and sleep deprivation is no longer anything but a routine. Besides, there is another reason he is not in his room, asleep. A reason why he needs to stay away from England's prying ears.

Tonight, however, something is different.

Something is off.

Downstairs, France turns on the light in Arthur's personal library, settling down in one of the chairs by the empty fireplace. Despite everything, a certain sentiment keeps him coming back whenever he feels ill at ease. He supposes that a part of it is due to the spark of defiance—that suppressed indignation that lies just beneath the surface of his facade, brought to life by a quiet frustration. Even if he has no power to change the fate of his divided country, he still has the individual autonomy to sneak downstairs. No matter if it makes him feel like a petulant child.

Rubbing his tired, raw eyes to no avail, he rises quietly from the chair to pace.

And then abruptly, he hears something out in the hallway.

_Click-clack._

France freezes.

With a narrowly tilted head, he strains to listen, staring past the boundaries of the glimmering light into engulfing darkness. A tentative silence, deceptively soft, settles over the room for one tempting moment. But then the sound starts up again, this time steadily _click-clack_ing its way toward him with every deliberate stride, and he finally realizes—too late—what he is hearing.

Footsteps.

Jaw tight, France swears under his breath. _I should have at least had the sense to close the door,_ he seethes. _Idiot. Now Arthur is going to come in, __the same tired argument will repeat itself yet again..._

He waits for him to arrive in dreaded anticipation, the pounding in his head building with every passing second. For some reason, despite the better part of his mind practically screaming for him to prepare his excuses, all he can think of is the expression on England's face when the inevitable confrontation eventually takes place—Arthur angry, Arthur crestfallen, disappointment and frustration warring with a growing sense of desperation. _Why?_ he wants to shout at himself. _Why do you still care so much about what he thinks?_

He continues waiting for what feels like an eternity, apprehension churning in the pit of his stomach.

But England never comes.

Faintly, it occurs to him that the footsteps are beginning to fade away again. Half self-conscious, half unnerved, France takes several deep breaths in an attempt to calm himself down. Before he can change his mind, he hurries across the library, over to the door, and flips the light switch. Then, with the room behind him now plunged into shadow, he ducks and slips noiselessly into the hallway.

Strictly speaking, he knows the general layout of the house well enough by now to navigate his way back upstairs. Constantly keeping an ear out for approaching footsteps, however, agitates his nerves. When he picks up muted shuffling from the hall perpendicular to his, panic flashes in his mind and he quickens his pace, accidentally turning onto the wrong path. By the time France ultimately realizes this, it is already too late.

Before him lies a dead end.

He spins around, heart sinking, the sound of footfalls landing closer and closer with every passing second. In a moment of apprehension, he finds himself wondering, seemingly arbitrarily, whether his coat is still there—because suddenly, he feels cold. Utterly cold.

Abruptly, unbearably cold.

A familiar shadow darkens the hallway, and he hears a slight pause. France grits his teeth. _What am I going to say?_ he realizes with a brief stab of panic. _How can I explain it all? How can I—_

"France? What the hell are you doing by the attic?"

And there he is, Arthur Kirkland himself. Briefcase in hand, a startled look in his eyes. Fatigue tugs at his expression and a frown creases his forehead, but France recognizes his hurried attempts at taming his unruly hair, even in the near pitch-black. It takes him a moment to register his words and another to glance around in bewilderment—but when he does, he finally understands.

On the ceiling is a trapdoor, one he had somehow missed. Something seems distinctively strange about its shape at first, but then France notices the hulking padlock hanging from beside the hinges. If not for the fact that the trapdoor supposedly led to the attic, he might have suspected it to be the entrance of a bomb shelter. Still, curiosity flares within him like a candle flame, and he has to force himself to turn his attention back to the situation at hand.

"What is this?" he scowls, gesturing upward.

The other Nation's expression shifts from surprise to uneasiness in the blink of an eye. Unconsciously, almost protectively, his hand flies to his coat pocket. _Strange. _"Nothing you need to know about."

"Oh, really? Where have I heard that before?"

They glare at each other until Arthur finally averts his eyes.

"You have another meeting tonight?" France says slowly, nodding at England's formal attire.

England clutches his briefcase closer in an almost protective manner. "Well, it appears that I have been discovered. How could you _possibly_ have guessed?"

The sarcasm is practically dripping from his tone, and he makes no effort to hide it. At this, France stiffens and glares back, only to find England already staring at him—almost as if he were searching his face for reactions. And then something flashes in his eyes for a fleeting instant.

Before the other Nation has a chance to respond, England is already turning away. France stares after him in surprise.

"Are you not planning on questioning me further?"

"No."

"Why?"

"One, because I have a meeting to get to on time. And two, because frankly, after two years of this shit, I don't give a damn what you do anymore.

His voice trembles for just the fraction of a second. Just enough to give France a sliver of hope. And then England is gone, steps echoing between the walls as he flees, headed down the hallway with an unnatural gait that resembles more of a sprint than a walk. _Gone. _But desperation lends itself to courage, and France has had more than his share of the former.

Without the slightest hesitation, he chases after.

"Wait!"

The staircase soon passes him by in a blur, but he pays it no mind. As he careens around a corner and catches England by the front door, he stops to gasp for breath. It comes out as a wheeze. "Arthur..."

He tries to grab his hand, but England shakes him off.

"Let me go!" he shouts, snatching the door handle. "An escort will be waiting for me outside. I'm going to be late at this rate!"

"One question. Please."

"What is it with you and—"

France does not let him finish. A certain possibility, one that has plagued him for years on end, is resurfacing once more to the forefront of his mind. In truth, he fears the answer—has lost sleep over uncertainty—has lain awake in the dead of night, doubts circling his thoughts like ravenous vultures. And he knows that his doubts are as much _his_ as he is _theirs_, for they come from the most unexpected of places and consume him from the inside out. But he has had enough.

"You think that part of me represents the _État Français_," he interrupts, narrowing his eyes. _No going back now. _"Vichy, as you call it. And that I might betray you if given the chance. Am I correct in this assumption?"

Abruptly, England's eyes dart to him in surprise—and then he stops.

Stares.

Opens his mouth, but no sound comes out.

A second ticks by. Another.

His hand lingers on the handle, knuckles white. France can see his fingers twitching in indecision, even from his vantage point.

And then, finally, England speaks.

"There is a possibility."

_Possibility._

Suddenly, France finds that he is beginning to hate the word.

"When?" he cries. "When did you decide that you could no longer trust me? Was it in 1940, when the Constitutional Law was first passed? Was it a gradual shift that took place over a span of years? Or did you never—"

"I don't have time for your nonsense," England snaps, stuffing on his shoes and wrenching open the door. A freezing gust of wind sweeps into the house, taking a flurry of snowflakes with it. "I need to go, _now_. I've just received word that the Germans..." Trailing off, he grimaces.

France's eyes harden. "The Germans what?"

For a moment, it almost seems as if England will refuse to answer. To France's surprise, however, he pauses one last time on his way out the door. As he begins speaking, his expression is deceivingly impassive, his gaze lowered to a spot behind the other Nation.

"They're on the Mediterranean coast," he finally says. "With their tanks, and on their way to occupy the Vichy regime. Ever since Operation Torch, Hitler has lost any rationale behind letting—"

"_What?_"

"I'll tell you more when I get back."

"Liar," France breathes. "What reason do you have to tell me anything, especially if you think of me as a traitor in the making? You said so yourself."

"There you go again with your melodramatic accusations," England retorts darkly, stepping out into the cold. Beside the curb on the adjoining street, the faint hum of a waiting vehicle just barely reaches their ears. "I've had enough. Goodnight."

"Promise me that what you said will hold true."

England clutches the handle again, eyes shining heatedly. "I said, _goodnight._"

"Promise me."

"Oh, fuck this—"

Some foreign part of him takes over France's mind at that moment, searing hot with subdued rage, rage at _whom_ or _what_ or _why_ of which he recognizes little. His hand shoots out toward the other Nation, aimed at grabbing something—_anything_—his collar, his sleeve, the weathered cloth of his uniform or fistfuls of his hair. And then it happens.

Their eyes meet for a split second. For one moment in time, somehow, _somewhere_, in the abyss of his consciousness, a small voice understands.

His eyes widen.

And then England slams the door shut.

A bright flare of pain flashes through his mind, and he jolts back as if struck by lightning. He hears a sickening _crunch_—and then a series of faint popping sounds. Fighting to keep down a strangled cry, he bites his lip, hard. Two seconds later, his mouth tastes metallic.

"Ah—!" he gasps through clenched teeth.

The door is abruptly pulled open again, and England stares, mouth open, face pale. As his hand starts to throb, he staggers back against the nearest wall, features twisted in agony. "Oh God," France whispers under his breath. "Oh _God_."

Silence.

Wincing, he brings his fingers up to the moonlight. One is hanging at an odd angle and two others are visibly bleeding.

On the curbside, the vehicle is still there. Perhaps sensing that something is wrong, a voice calls out tentatively.

"Mr. Kirkland?"

"Ice pack," England croaks, taking a step back. His gaze never leaves the other Nation's hand. "In the refrigerator."

France looks up, gaping.

But Arthur is already gone. He only hears the telltale sound of retreating footsteps, and even they eventually disappear into the distance.

* * *

**.**

**.**

**.**

* * *

_he never gets the chance to tell francis that sometimes, he hides things not from others but from himself._

* * *

**.**

**.**

**.**

* * *

**\- A/N -**

**Sorry for the ungodly amount of inner monologue and exposition in this chapter. The pacing was so damn slow that it must have taken a special type of reader to plow through.**

_**Reference(s):**_

**[1] The vague term "****Constitutional Law of 1940" refers to Pétain's revision of the French constitution, which eventually led to the ****establishing of the authoritarian Vichy regime.**

**[2] _Case Anton_, the military occupation of Vichy France, was carried out soon after an Allied invasion of French North Africa (Operation Torch). As Vichy no longer retained its colonies, thus ceasing to be useful, ****Hitler saw no reason to continue allowing it to exist.**

**~ Reviews are appreciated ~**


	5. feared

— **Chapter Five ****—**

_**1664**_

_**The New World**_

_Sunlight glitters off the polished steel of his sword as France digs the blade into the earth, lazily fidgeting with its ornate hilt. By the flowing river where he stands, England paces the shores, as restless as the day they arrived. Deep in thought again, no doubt. Probably plotting his demise at the very moment._

_France glances briefly into his reflection in the water, then frowns. He really should have brought a comb with him today._

_"In case you haven't already heard," __England casually remarks, cutting through his inner monologue, "I recently laid claim to another province along the east coast to include in my country's overseas territories. __That is, the Province of New York."_

_"You mean you seized it from the Netherlands."_

_"Correct."_

_"And without __recognition from the Dutch West Indies Company."_

_"Also correct." England smirks obnoxiously._

_Pushing his envy off to the back of his mind, France scoffs and tries to sound uninterested. __"I would say that is bold of you," he observes, "but I know you too well by now."_

_As if bored by their exchange, h__e turns away to resume fiddling with his sword. __England is unable to stop himself from watching. As he listens to the soft gurgle of the river behind him, he raises his eyebrows at what he can only assume to be a poor attempt at deflecting the conversation. _

_Finally, he sighs in exasperation. _

_"What the hell is with you and that sword, anyway? I've seen you carry that thing around for almost a century, but you never use it in battle."_

_"Oh, Arthur, you do not understand," France murmurs, looking up. "It__ is far too beautiful to be blemished by war."_

_"So you__'ve never killed anything with it?"_

_Sword in hand, facing the river, France shakes his head. His eyes are fixed on something in the rushing water. __"No. __But that is going to change now."_

_His grip on the hilt tightens, and England's face goes pale. _

_"You—you—" he splutters, backpedaling through the tall grass like a cornered animal. Instinctively, his hand flies to his hip, only for him to realize__—too late__—that he has no weapon. "I thought__—I thought this was a__—"_

_France's arm moves too quickly for him to register. Before England can think, a__ steel arc cuts through the water, spattering countless droplets into the space around him. His mouth falls open. As he stares in disbelief, barely even noticing that the entire front of his shirt is soaked, the other Nation raises the blade into the air and grins._

_Speared on the end of the sword is a limp fish._

_"Hungry?"_

_England suppresses his revulsion. __"You bastard," is all he can say. "__You absolute fucking showoff."_

_"Why, thank you!" France replies, laughing. And then he bows._

* * *

**.**

**.**

**.**

* * *

_careful now, boy._

* * *

**.**

**.**

**.**

* * *

**~ Reviews are appreciated ~**


	6. Fall

_they sink—_

_deeper__—_

* * *

.

.

.

* * *

— **Chapter Six **—

_**January 15, 1943**_

_**Casablanca, Morocco**_

"Hey, England!" America yells, poking his head around the doorway. "Winston wanted me to pass some information along to you!"

This was approximately the moment when England's day finally progressed from bad to worse, and he is not amused. It would have been unpleasant enough by itself that he remains bone-tired ever since arriving for the Casablanca conference, but add on top of that hours upon hours of heated war strategy discussion and he feels just about ready to pass out on the floor.

"Could you possibly not refer to my prime minister by his first name?" England snaps. He pulls himself up in his chair and tries to rub the black dots from his vision. "And what do you want now?"

"I just told you."

England ignores this and closes his eyes. There is no doubt about it now; a pounding headache is imminent. "Why does it have to be you, anyway?" he mutters under his breath. "Why couldn't he have at least sent someone else? Or, better yet—"

"Ahem," America interrupts.

A brief expression of annoyance crosses the younger Nation's face, something that surprises England enough to bring him back to the present. Straightening his back, he awkwardly clears his throat. "Er, yes?"

America stares at him for a long, tense moment. And then he steps into the room, and shuts the door behind him.

"It's about France."

England grits his teeth so abruptly that he nearly bites off his own tongue. As his heartbeat begins to quicken, he feels cold sweat gather along his spine. "Oh, um, yes, I know," he stammers. "There should be an official joint leadership of the Free French forces—"

"No, I meant—"

"—between de Gaulle and Giraud, especially since—"

"The personification, England, not the country," America presses. Suddenly, his eyes are shadowed by something strange. "Christ, you _know_ that. Now let me finish."

Heat flushes his crimson cheeks, and he swallows.

He shuts up.

"So," America begins, "it's been decided that France is no longer going to be staying at your place."

"_What?_"

"Yeah. Apparently he can't be trusted anymore. Well, I mean, I don't think you guys trusted him all that much to begin with, but Case Anton was definitely the last straw. You know, since Germans are now occupying both zones and all."

Anxiety coils in the pit of his stomach like a serpent, but England forces himself to keep his composure. "Where is he going to be, then?"

"Not too far away. Probably a nice, peaceful town somewhere in the Cotswolds, less than a hundred miles from London." American sends him an inquiring look. "Hey, you okay there?"

England does not feel 'okay'. His mouth has suddenly gone dry and he is clenching his fists far too tightly, staring off into the distance as if Francis might appear there. Instead, all his gaze finds is a wall. A cold, blank, concrete wall.

_No, America, I'm not._

He tries to say this, but all that comes out is a faint mumble.

"I... I need a drink."

To his relief, America merely shrugs and begins rifling through his duffel bag. "Oh, sure," he says distractedly before he stops to frown. For a fleeting second, his eyes dart back to the other Nation's face. "I didn't bring any alcohol, though, if that's what you meant."

"No, no, it's fine," England mutters. He feels like sinking into the ground and staying there until America finally finds the sense to leave. "I was just wondering where I would be able to get a cup of tea if I happened to—"

"Oh, won't you look at that!"

Lifting up a bottle of some carbonated drink, America whistles and sets it heavily on the table. "Almost forgot I had this with me. Want some?"

Forcefully, England shakes his head. His head is practically spinning as he rises from his chair. "No, really, I—"

"Aw, you're no fun," America pouts. Spinning around in his chair, he watches with raised eyebrows as England begins heading off across the room. He has already popped the bottle open with his bare hands by the time the other Nation reaches the exit door. "Where the heck are you even going?"

"Why would it matter to you?"

"What, are you upset over France or something? I thought you'd be happy that he's—"

He slams the door.

* * *

By the telephone stand, England trembles with a hand on the dial. And then abruptly, he steps back and drops his shaking arm back to his side.

* * *

That night, he stumbles back to his hotel room, utterly drained. The conference that took place after his confrontation with America is all but a blur in his mind. All he knows for certain is that no conclusion is close to being reached, despite the endless tactical debate that continues to ring in his ears. And now, once again, he finds himself yearning for sleep.

Out in the entrance hall outside his room, he fumbles through his pockets for the elusive key that seems to have vanished into thin air. But despite his best efforts, his hands still come up empty. In a moment of frustration, he turns to kick at the door out of sheer spite.

To his shock, it crashes open.

As his mouth falls open, the first thing he hears is the door colliding with the opposite wall. And then, strangely, something else reaches his ears. Something that sounds like shattering glass.

A plain white shard lands at his feet. In curious trepidation, he peers around the door.

At first, England is not sure what he is looking at—the shards on the ground are in disarray and seemingly random, not so much part of a coherent whole as they are individual fragments. But then he notices a small piece of paper.

Quietly shutting the door behind him, he bends over to retrieve it from the floor. The edges of the note are soaking wet, he realizes, finally beginning to understand. He has to squint to make out the scrawled words on the paper—but thankfully, the lettering is too large to miss. It reads:

_**Here's the tea that you asked for earlier, old man. It's not Earl Grey though. Please don't kill me. Thanks.**_

There is no signature. England needs none. There is only one person who would break into his room, place a china teacup—filled to the brim, no less—right behind the front door, and then leave without even locking the door.

With an exasperated sigh, he dips a finger into the liquid running down a shard and tentatively licks it off. He shudders. Too much sugar.

Turning the note over, he finds that the back is even more crowded with scribbles.

_**P.S. By the way, do you want to have lunch with me tomorrow?**_

_No,_ he shoots back.

Quickly. Too quickly. Almost as if he never considered the possibility to begin with. Almost like his answer is prerecorded audio that he plays for himself, over and over until it is etched permanently into his mind.

_Stop. D__on't go there. Don't even think about it._

Suddenly uneasy, he continues reading. This time, his breath catches in his throat.

_**Because... uh, I sometimes get the feeling that you hate me.**_

_No,_ he thinks again, more forcefully this time. _Not this. Not now._

But something keeps him going. Something keeps him from crushing the paper into a crumpled mess and throwing it into the trash, right then and there.

_**And since we're allies now, maybe we could try to reconcile or something. I don't know, just a thought. You've been kind of distant from everyone else for quite a while now, and that can't be fun.**_

Something is starting to itch at the corner of his eyes. England ignores it and begins picking up the smashed teacup shards in one hand.

_Go away, Alfred. You've made your bed more than a hundred years ago, so now lie in it._

_Just like everyone else. Just like my brothers. Just like all those who ridiculed me as the treacherous Perfidious Albion. Just like__—_

He digs the edges of the broken ceramic pieces deeper into his skin. A thin trickle of warm blood runs down his fingers.

_Just like France._

_**P.P.S. Also, you still owe me money.**_

As he straightens, one shard slips from his fingers, shattering on the floor into two even smaller pieces.

_**P.P.P.S. Also, correction: *recouncile, not reconcile**_

_**P.P.P.P.S. Wait, never mind, it actually is reconcile.**_

"Goddammit," England mumbles to himself, desperately blinking away hot tears. All the burnout from the past several years—the guilt he experienced, the pain he endured, the little things that steadily piled up on a bedrock of his own ignorance—is finally catching up to him. And he lets it.

_**P.P.P.P.P.S. But seriously. **__**Just think about it, alright? **_

_**I'll meet you by the lobby tomorrow at noon.**_

Even though he can scarcely see through his tears, he tries to pick up the fragments nonetheless. They barely fit in his hand, but he could care less.

_Because all I care about is—_

He walks to the desk. His hands are trembling again, but he is not sure whether this is because of helpless anguish or because he wants to throw something at the wall.

_—out of sight_—

He sets the shards of the ruined teacup on the table, almost gently. There, at last, he allows himself to shred the note, scattering the bloodstained pieces into the waste bin like falling snowflakes.

It does not feel as satisfying as he had hoped. The only thing he experiences is emptiness.

_—gone—_

Agitation growing, he gathers the heap of shards into his hands again. And then without thinking, he shoves them into the waste bin as well. One splinter opens up a slash by his right elbow, and another stabs painfully into his wrist, but he grits his teeth and pushes even harder.

_—down, down, down, into the recesses of—_

He finally lets go when the blood starts to encrust his fingernails, staggering back and taking deep, shuddering breaths. The dried tears by his eyelids make it harder to blink, and even when he wipes his hand on the table, he can still see red against the lines of his palm like tiny crimson canals.

"Why the _fuck_ are there no tissue boxes here?" he whispers, voice rasping.

No one responds. The only sound he hears is that of his own fitful breathing.

Banging a fist onto the desk, he lets his head hang limp.

And he sobs.

* * *

.

.

.

.

.

* * *

_**January 26**_

_**London**_

When England finally returns home from the conference, more than a week later, the house is dead quiet.

Dread hangs over his thoughts like a heavy storm cloud as he closes the front door and hangs his coat on the stand. _What is that bastard up to now?_ he wonders, shaking snow crystals from his hair. The plan to relocate Francis from London would commence in less than an hour, even though he has still not been able to gather enough courage to inform the other Nation. And now he can postpone no longer.

_If he's even here right now._

Apprehension growing, England paces down the hallway and stops at the staircase. Would Francis really be in his room at this time? _Then again,_ he decides, _where else would he go?_

He is almost about to start climbing the stairs when a deafening crash resonates from the next hallway down.

Startled, England freezes. A panicked yelp reaches his ears immediately after, followed by a series of frustrated French swearing. As he finally snaps out of his trance, he releases the staircase railings and begins hurrying away toward the direction of the sound at once. _What the hell? Why would he—_

Abruptly, he slows. He turns a corner, and that is when he finds him.

His heart sinks.

_Oh._

Before him, Francis is spread out against the floor, trapped beneath a metal stepladder with his hair in his face and an arm stuck between two rungs. At Arthur's stare, he groans and tries to squirm out from under the ladder to no apparent avail. "I should have remembered..." he grimaces.

_Should have remembered what? That I was coming home today?_ England guesses. He does not say this, and instead raises his eyebrows. "What were you trying to reach, anyway?"

France shrugs, and England glances toward the ceiling in response. As he squints up through the darkness, his eyes stop at the barely-visible silhouette of a padlocked trapdoor—and then the realization finally hits him. Anxiety flashes through his mind as he remembers why he locked it in the first place, and his hand moves to his coat pocket. At the other Nation's interested gaze, he forces himself to drop it to his side.

_Don't give him any more reason to be suspicious._

"Are you serious?" he scowls instead, trying to sound indifferent. "_This_ again?"

"Your fault for installing such suspiciously heavy padlocks on an already suspicious-looking trapdoor," France responds coldly. As he speaks, he manages to free his arm, using it to shove the rungs away from his body. "And since you appear to think so little of this, I suppose you can also afford to tell me what exactly lies up there in your precious attic?"

"Personal memorabilia, what else?"

"Forgive me for not believing you."

England shrugs. "Well, it's true, believe it or not."

"Right," France says slowly, pushing his newly-disheveled hair out of his eyes. His voice is level, and yet England detects something in his tone that had not been there before. Something different from the quiet anger that had simmered for so long. "Personal memorabilia."

He scoots away from the ladder, out of its path, but does not get up. Instead, he remains in a sitting position, legs out in front of him and face blank.

Something is wrong.

"Look, you don't even have any proper equipment," England scoffs. "What were you hoping to do with the lock? Politely ask it to open for you? Torture it into compliance with your obnoxious singing? What could you _possibly_ have done?"

France's knuckles turn white. "I only—"

"Now, if you'll excuse me," England interrupts, "I need to tell you something important." He can already hear shouting from outside the house, and his sense of urgency is running high. They only have around ten minutes, at best. "Starting from today—"

"Wait," France cuts in faintly.

Eyes narrowed, England ignores him. "—you'll no longer be—"

"I need to say something."

"_—residing—_"

"Arthur, could you shut the hell up and _listen_ to me for _one fucking second_?"

Shock freezes his movements.

England stops dead. Whatever he was about to say disappears instantly from his mind.

The other Nation's eyes are flaring, but his expression is still vacant. When he finally speaks again, however, his voice is suddenly collected again.

"I know you won't ever take my words to heart," Francis begins quietly. _Quiet like a grave._ "But I will say this anyway."

The hallway is silent. England swallows.

"First of all, your condescension is neither necessary nor appreciated."

Opens his mouth.

"Second of all—" his voice is still level— "I know all of this has been tiring for you."

Closes it.

"And finally, I assume you take out your frustration on me."

Bites his lip so forcefully that he tastes blood.

"Arthur," he continues. His voice is so low now, so _quiet_, that England has to hold his breath to hear his words. "Even if I was delusional all along and you do hate me after all—even if you think I'm a piece of shit that doesn't deserve your sympathy... well. Let me put it this way. Rushing home in your battered uniform. Trying to hide your scars as you hurry back out into the snow. Calling me at three in the morning to bark the occasional order when I can tell that you've just been crying your eyes out. I notice these things. And I know for a fact it's not only me, either."

He hears more shouting. Sees France's face tilted toward his. Feels a brief, intense stab of something he is too afraid to identify.

"So listen. Whatever happens next, take care of yourself. If not for your sake, then for someone else's. Because your actions matter."

A small strangled sound comes out of England's throat, startled and indignant. France finally looks up in that moment, his eyes empty, his lips stiff. Despite his words, his face betrays no emotion, and it is this fact that scares Arthur more than anything else in the silent hallway they share.

"Now," France says softly. "What were you going to say?"

_He knows,_ England realizes dully. _He knows that our time is limited. He knew all along._

"In a short while, you will be relocated from London," he murmurs weakly, head still reeling from the other Nation's words. "For safety."

France does not even blink. "Not my safety, I presume."

"No." The word spills out of his mouth before he can control it. It feels both liberating and terrifying at the same time, as if speaking the truth has him standing at the edge of a cliff. "Not in theory."

"And should I pack my suitcase?"

"No need. You will be provided for accordingly, and your belongings will be looked after as appropriate."

"Ah," France says, closing his eyes. "You mean they are going to take my suitcase away?"

England wipes his bleeding lip on his sleeve.

"Yes."

"And you agreed to this?"

"The arrangements were made ahead of time. I couldn't exactly have said no to them, could I?"

Suddenly falling into silence, as if deep in contemplation, France stands up for the first time. He paces over to the hallway entrance just past England's shoulder, as if about to leave, then stops and turns back around. Their faces are so close now that Arthur can feel the warmth emanating from his skin. "No," France admits. "Perhaps not."

"They're afraid of you turning against us," England offers as some kind of explanation, then winces at the obvious nature of his statement. "The Vichy part of you, that is."

"Do you _honestly_ believe that?"

"Look," England growls, "I didn't want to believe it either. The reason you were even allowed to stay here for so long was because of _me_. My higher-ups wanted to lock you away as soon as Pétain's government started putting so-called _undesirables_ in internment camps."

France stares.

"You—what—"

"I practically begged them on fucking hands and knees. Did you know that?" England hurriedly wipes his face again, but this time, it is not because of the blood. "After trying so hard to convince them, they finally gave you another chance. And I thought that would be the end of it, but no. Shit only got worse—the camps at Mauthausen, the Vel' d'Hiv roundup, the raids in Marseille—and every single time, I was the one who had to persuade them, _once again_, that you weren't a threat to the rest of us."

His voice starts to shake.

Out by the front door, someone knocks. Both Nations ignore it.

"So," England sighs, looking away, "try to understand, at least. M-Maybe, we could... we could both work on that. I promise I listened to what you said."

Tentatively, almost timidly, he places both hands on the other man's shoulders. France lets out a slow, reluctant breath, expression twitching back and forth between an apathetic mask and something deeper.

"And now, I guess this is goodbye." He forces a feeble smile. "F-Francis."

France raises an eyebrow, but does not react. Just as the knocking reaches a crescendo behind them, he reluctantly pulls away. His gaze remains fixed.

"Goodbye, Arthur."

"Here, I'll go get the door," England mutters, looking over his shoulder. And he rushes past him before Francis can stop him.

Before Francis can tell him that he never answered his question.

* * *

**.**

**.**

**.**

* * *

_he dreams of a snowstorm that night—standing still in the cold, frostbitten and alone. _

_in the distance is a figure struggling against the snowdrift, crying for help, __but he can hardly see and __his heels are frozen to the ground._

* * *

**.**

**.**

**.**

* * *

**there was enough forced angst in this chapter to fill a dictionary, and it came out of nowhere whoops**

**oh my god this thing sucks**

_**Reference(s):**_

**[1] The Casablanca Conference was held to plan Allied strategy for the next stage of the war. Ultimately, it released**** a statement calling for "unconditional surrender" of the Axis.**

**~ Reviews are appreciated ~  
**

**~ like, actually ~**


	7. resented

— **Chapter Seven **—

_**October 17, 1781**_

_**Yorktown, Virginia**_

_By morning, the gunsmoke has already faded away._

_Weary but alert, __France crosses through enemy lines with a watchful eye. __I__n the rubble all around him, there are bodies—their __uniforms bloodied and muskets discarded, dead silent under the stifling air __except for the occasional muffled cry. __There is n__o doubt about it now. The war is over. Briefly, h__e wonders how many soldiers were killed in the bombardment of the night before, then shakes his head and tries __not to dwell on it._

_Right now, he still has one last mission to complete._

Arthur, where are you?

_And then, at the end of the field,__ he sees him._

_H__e sits on the ground, alone, __face streaked with ashes and tears, staring off blankly into the distance as if looking for the answer to his invisible questions.__ A pang crosses his heart, __but he makes himself focus on the task at hand. Stepping forward until they are mere feet apart, __he clears his throat. A coil of rope dangles from one hand while he clutches a blindfold in the other._

_"I am here," he begins, "__to inform you of General Cornwallis's surrender. __I am also under orders to bring you behind American lines before negotiations begin, blindfolded and with force if necessary."_

_For a moment, England's eye twitches, but there is no response._

_A sick feeling starts to roil in his stomach. This time, France has to force himself __to continue in the same detached, monotone tone. __"Please drop your weapons immediately and stand with your hands in the air."_

_Still no answer. _

_He is unable to take any more._

_Finally dropping the act, France crouches down on one knee before him and tries to meet his gaze. He does his best to sound calm, but his voice is filled to the brim with tension._

_"Arthur?"_

_Before he even realizes what is happening, E__ngland's boot is already in motion. __It kicks him hard in the gut, stabbin__g a jolting __pain up his side and sending __him sprawling back through the billowing dust. __His reflexes allow him to reach for his musket and attempt to stand at the same time, but before he knows it, __England is upon him and has knocked it clean out of his hands._

_France flinches and gasps for breath. The other man is pinning his hands to the ground and trapping his legs together with both knees, eyes lit with a rage that he has never seen before, never, __not once in the countless years __that they have spent scratching and bruising __and stabbing and healing each other. __"Arthur—stop—there's no point in—_"

_"You knew," England snarls, voice ragged. __"You knew all along what this would do to me. And still, you chose to defend my treasonous brother."_

_"It was not my decision!"  
_

_He laughs, a hysterical, cynical sound __that sends chills down France's spine. __"Not your decision? _Not your decision?_" Faintly, he is aware of En__gland's hot breath against his skin. "__Go to hell with all your fucking excuses. You _believed _him_. _You told me yourself that I was a selfish bastard incapable of seeing through anyone else's perspective but mine. Y__ou prattled on and on about Alfred's delusions, all the while refusing to acknowledge that you're no better than me, but I guess that worked out just fine for you two, _didn't it_—"_

_With a sudden burst of strength, France kicks him away and pushes himself up from the ground. But England is faster. Not wasting a single moment, he grabs the musket lying on the ground and hastily retreats several paces back. His gaze is frenzied as he checks first the priming pan, then the muzzle—both empty—and spits out a curse as he realizes that he no longer has his cartridge box to load the gun._

_The longer France watches him, the more his sense of pity grows. Despite himself, he feels sorry for him, for the lonely child that has possessed him once again in the form of desperate vengeance. As England clenches his jaw and glares at him helplessly, France holds out his hands and sighs._

_"Look, England, please..."_

_The other Nation stares at him._

_His face twitches. Perhaps he is thinking back to a simpler time, a time when he could lock away his reluctance and bury it under pride. __When he pretended that nothing could ever shake him, the tiny island nation that made himself impossible promises. When he hurt without hesitance. __And for a second, that part of him seems to win._

_Then abruptly, the vicious light in his eyes dies._

_England stumbles back and slumps to the ground. Releasing __his slack grip on the musket, he raises his hands into the air._

_"I give up."_

_France releases a breath he did not realize he was holding. __"So, are you going to—"_

_"Hurry up and just kill me."  
_

_There is a long, stunned silence. France's hand goes cold._

_"_What?_"_

_"Isn't that what you've always wanted, Francis?" His voice is devoid of hope. He laughs again, quietly, and it sounds like a broken wind-up toy. __"To make me fall apart?"_

_The other Nation grits his teeth. "No."_

_"Oh, really? Is that why it just so happens that you've committed the exact same act countless __times before? Is that why you've made the_ _personal _choice_ to kill me over and over throughout__ the course of our lifetime, and then turn your back on me as you take away the one person in this world I've ever given a shit about?"_

_France goes still._

_"So why," England hisses, "__don't you just kill me already and be done with it, like I would have done in your position within a heartbeat? Why don't you follow through with your treachery to the very end and __finish what you started?" __He does not wait for an answer. __"Oh, I know. It's because you're a fucking coward."_

_It is obvious that England is trying to provoke him,_ _he knows it, he knows it as well as he can hear the quiver in the other Nation's voice—__but something in those words makes him stop. S__omething else inside him is taking over, something irrational. And to his own surprise, he caves._

_"Oh, I would," he shrugs, __cocking his head. The spiteful kingdom creeps back in. "__Except y__ou have my only weapon, and it has no ammunition."_

_England sneers. __"What about that sword hanging at your belt? The one you love so much that you carry it around everywhere?"_

_His blood turns to ice, even as a strange, new impulse pounds behind his ears._

_He raises an eyebrow in response, __then returns the sneer._

_"You still haven't killed anyone with it yet, have you?"_

_A challenging nod. France's hand brushes the sheath at his waist._

_Somehow, the gleam in England's eyes both scares and enthralls him at the same time._

_"Well, I suppose that is going to change now," Arthur whispers softly. A bitter mockery of that lazy, sun-drenched afternoon from over__ a hundred years back. "If you have any semblance of courage, that is. __So do you, coward?"_

* * *

**.**

**.**

**.**

* * *

_what happened next would haunt his dreams for years._

* * *

**.**

**.**

**.**

* * *

**Coming up: the final chapter.**

** It's going to be... l****ong. Really long.**

**Sorry.**

**Thanks to everyone who's made it this far. ****Reviews/favs/follows ****are always appreciated—it'll legit make my day c: ****Anything is enough!**


	8. Thaw

— **Chapter Eight **—

After he leaves, the silence in the house becomes suffocating.

The usual bustle of the city below hardly registers in Arthur's ears, and neither does the distant hum of the vehicle as it carries Francis down the street and away from London. The air is choked with enough of his uncertainties that he feels as if he can barely breathe, but he forces himself to steady his nerves. _He'll be perfectly fine,_ he reasons._ All those heated arguments can't be good for either of our mental states. At least now, he'll finally get to spend his days in a place far away from his worries._

Empty reassurances.

He frowns and tries to distract himself instead.

* * *

Three minutes of absentminded brewing yields him a cup of hastily-made tea, one which he carries in his hand back to the table.

It spills before he can even reach his seat.

He curses. Agitation climbing like wildfire in the night, he grabs a nearby rag. And then, for some reason that escapes him, he glances back into the cup, at the tea leaves bobbing up and down in the remaining liquid. Black and blue, Earl Grey and cornflower, floating through the currents and and struggling toward the walls of their fragile porcelain prison—

_Drowning—_

He pushes the cup away, stands up, and heads off to bed.

* * *

(and Arthur realizes that whenever they grow apart like this—physically, emotionally, _inevitably_—he fills in the space of where Francis should be with memories and abstractions, an approximation of something he cannot quite see)

* * *

At five AM, he startles awake from the blinding snowstorm in his head. Blood pulses in the space behind his ears, and he realizes that his palms are slick with sweat. In the dark, he shivers.

Without realizing it, he begins straining his ears for something beyond the walls of his bedroom, and he thinks for a second that it might be the desperate cry of his dream. Except he hears nothing.

Either way, it matters little to him in his drowsy state.

He soon falls asleep again.

* * *

Early the next morning, he steps inside France's former room for the first time in months.

Outside, the sun has already risen, golden beams cutting through the night as dawn brings about a new day. And yet the shadows in the room appear to have a will of their own, claiming the corners as their hiding places and clinging defiantly to the bare plaster walls. It is peculiar, almost. Like this place is a separate entity from the rest of the house that encompasses it.

The air feels different, too. A bandage to hide the infection, nothing where there should have been _something_. He almost prefers the stifling atmosphere outside the room that seems to crush him at every opportunity, the doubts and the questions and the what-ifs that lurk behind his every thought. _What if I'd tried to negotiate? What if I'd only argued my point calmly and rationally? __What if I'd had the fucking courage to even say goodbye?_ Because at least that was _something_. He still would have felt _something_.

But this room is null. This air is void, void of all fear and anger and everything that made Francis real, not just blank but _empty_ because he realizes now that there is something to be filled. That for the last three years, what he has been presented with is little more than a lie.

He begins to pace.

Perhaps it had always been like this. Or perhaps the room here used to be suffused by emotion, too, roiling and inflamed until the untamable became tamed. Cooled into metal for an impenetrable shield. Like the deposition of vapor on water droplets in sub-freezing temperatures. Like the air, once saturated, now reduced to fuel source for aerosol particles and the ice crystals that grow around them. Until the crystal becomes too heavy—and it finally plummets, free fall, through the atmosphere.

Something catches his eye in that moment, weathered and forgotten, and he stops.

France's suitcase.

Open.

Only one piece of clothing remains inside—the coat he wore on the day he arrived in London, shortly before the Germans overran Paris. It looks neglected, and perhaps purposely so.

England feels strange, almost intrusive for doing so, but he takes it to bed that night, tattered and useless as it is. He does not know why.

And he hugs it to his chest as he drifts off to sleep.

* * *

The following day, he tosses the coat in the fireplace. Regrets it. Tells himself that he will buy a warmer one for Francis when they meet again.

* * *

_Rival._

_Friend._

Useless. Both useless. Descriptors that become pathetically shallow once removed from their original context, of battlegrounds and negotiation tables and mundane social gatherings.

_The enemy._

Two words that no longer hold true.

_The despised._

Who is putting these labels into his mouth, himself or something else?

He feels as if he is standing at the edge of a void where the boundaries are fluid, ebbing and flowing with the turning of the centuries. So he digs deeper, probing through his words because they are all he knows, uncovering layer after layer of half-truths and white lies. _Nothing._ There is nothing for him to find, no matter how far he goes.

* * *

Once, he tries sifting through his feelings instead and regrets it immediately. They are unstable, volatile things, and seem to drag him under like quicksand.

_Or sn—_

* * *

The midnight before he is due for another mission, England awakes once again.

As he lies there in the pressing silence, he closes his eyes. Strangely, his ears appear to have a will of their own, strained for any hint of sound they can reach.

As if out of a habit he cannot quite break.

Something finally occurs to him in that moment, and this time, he finally understands. This listening in, this _eavesdropping_ is what he used to do almost every other night, back when France still lived here with him. Before he discovered what Arthur was doing and began taking precautionary measures against him.

The truth was, Francis talked in his sleep.

It started out innocent enough, with snatches of bygone conversation and incomprehensible muttering. Then England started to notice a change in his ramblings, the anomaly in the system—talk of _la décadence_ and a Jewish conspiracy, propaganda from the _Révolution nationale_ and slogans straight from Pétain's mouth. He tried to ignore it at first, tried to rationalize the situation as best as he could, but it only grew worse as time went on. Eventually, he could no longer refer to it as just an 'anomaly'.

On more than a few occasions, England thought he heard France mention the phrase "_la perfide Albion_". And he expected it to set his blood boiling, as it would if it came from anyone else, but instead, it only made his heart twist in a way he had never known before.

When France found out, he hardly said anything. It was almost as if he already knew. But England was still watchful, still alert, and he knew everything—how the other Nation began to stay awake all throughout certain nights, the way he crept downstairs in case he was caught sleep talking again and attempted to hide his bleary eyes in the mornings. Sorrow battled with common sense, but in the end, Arthur could not set aside his wariness. Still, though, he could not bring himself to let Francis go. He was slipping away, and he was desperately holding on with every bit of his strength.

Even if it put himself and all his confidential information in potential danger.

Even if he was only clinging to a shell of France's former self.

* * *

Sometimes, England wonders when exactly Francis stopped showing emotion to him. But he fears the answer, so he never makes an attempt to know.

* * *

On January 30, 1943, he leaves the house and does not return for months.

He hardly hears from Francis for another year and a half, but he tries to push him to the back of his mind anyway. After all, there is nothing to be gained from dwelling.

* * *

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

_Not too long ago, he thought that the world was a constant battlefield._

_He knows better now._

_For it is not a battlefield, but a masquerade ball._

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

* * *

_**June 5, 1944**_

_**Westminster, London**_

A broken support beam rises from the debris, snapped and buried beneath a mountain of rubble. Soft moonlight provides the wreckage a temporary refuge from the dark, just bright enough to throw the shadows into a deep contrast—contours and silhouettes, illuminated and obscured, together and alone against the night. The ruins are silent. Of the place where a stately mansion used to stand, nothing remains except shattered glass and a telltale scattering of fine gray ash.

The neighborhood is quiet as Arthur Kirkland wanders down the empty road, preoccupied in his thoughts. There are black spots dancing at the corner of his vision, and he knows he should have rested—but he cannot bring himself to stay home when his mind is wandering hundreds of miles away. Operation Overlord, after having been meticulously planned for over a year, is finally being scheduled to commence in less than two days' time. And tonight, he is unable to think about anything else.

_As you should._

As he stares into the face of the collapsed mansion, he pauses. Several centuries ago, he remembers, this part of the city would have been teeming with aristocrats. In fact, he used to live here as well, back in the reign of Charles I. To him, the location of his former residence seemed almost perfect—too respectable to be irrelevant, yet still secluded enough to placate his irritable nerves. Even after he left the mansion to make another home in Trafalgar Square, there was still a place for the old dwelling in his heart.

At least, until the second World War began, and the Blitz bombed it to the ground.

Gingerly, England takes a seat by a pile of bricks and closes his eyes. A feeling of nausea sweeps over him, and he fights back the queasiness as best as he can. _This is the most suitable date for the operation we have,_ he reminds himself. _June 6 is our only option. Any later and we'd have to summon back the ships already in position._ After the meeting that had taken place that evening between Stagg and Eisenhower, it had been decided that they could postpone no longer. Given their limited time window, there was no better occasion for favorable tidal conditions than two days from now. And as long as the weather improved enough for them to launch their landing craft, they would continue with the operation as planned.

He can only hope that all else goes well.

With a sigh, England rises. Another wave of disorientation threatens to knock him off his feet, but he manages to stay upright. As he shivers in the cold, he rubs his hands together in a futile attempt to preserve body heat. _I really should have slept, given that there's going to be another meeting at dawn,_ he chides himself. _In a couple of hours, no less. _

_I haven't been taking care of myself as well as I should._

Suddenly, inexplicably, he hears a startled yelp from somewhere close by.

The muffled sound of a wooden plank hitting the ground follows soon after.

His heart lurches into his throat, and he spins around as if from some unknown instinct. But there is nothing—only torn street signs, night sky, and the wide, deserted road. So for a long moment, he stands there. He stands, feet frozen to the ground, mind tethered to the uncertainty that plagues his thoughts and shadows his movements. As if waiting for a sign.

_You're tired,_ England insists to himself. _You must have imagined it__._ And he almost believes it, but then the panicked cry soon comes ringing out again. Louder. Clearer.

_Familiar._

He can no longer ignore it this time.

Trying to focus his attention, he begins turning his gaze every which way, searching for the source of the sound wherever it may be—_up, down, left, right_... until, finally, he sees it.

Above him is a shadowed figure.

Huddled, dangling twenty feet high, it clings on desperately to the building's skeletal frame for dear life. England stares, temporarily paralyzed from shock. Then a particularly strong wind slams it straight into the concrete wall, and he jerks back to attention at the agitated cursing that follows. The agitated _French_ cursing.

Something is definitely familiar about that voice.

Just as England is starting to understand, the figure twists around, panting for breath, and locks eyes with him. Moonlight passes over his face for only one fleeting second, but it is enough. After all, he can recognize that face from practically anywhere.

In that moment, his stomach drops all the way to Tartarus.

_Oh, fuck._

"Ar—Arthur—" France gasps, eyes widening as he takes in the sight of the other man. His hair is windblown, his clothes a frayed mess, but his gaze remains bright with surprise as he looks down at England standing below him. "I—I..."

_Why the fuck are you here?_ Arthur wants to scream at him. _How did you fucking manage to get back to London and how the fuck did you get up there?_

He says none of those things. As he sees France's fingers slip from the steel frame by just the fraction of a degree, the stars above him and the wreckage below, he senses that there is no time for questions.

_He'll be seeing more than just stars if he falls like this._

Silently, he makes a split-second decision.

"I'm coming up!" he calls.

France merely grunts in response, presumably not having the breath to say more.

Five seconds later, England realizes that this is easier said than done. What remains of the mansion is in shambles, and at first glance, there appears to be no obvious path up. Just as he is about to climb up onto the nearest windowsill, however, something else catches his eye.

In the back of the ground level room—now reduced to two walls and one crooked ceiling—is a staircase. Despite being half-collapsed and half-buried, most of it is still remarkably intact. Clearing his way through the rubble, England takes a deep breath and begins to ascend.

A while later, he finally emerges onto the floor above. It takes him only a second to spot France's suspended form before him, and he starts crossing the creaking boards toward him as swiftly and cautiously as possible.

But he is too late.

An ominous groan suddenly emanates from the wiry metal foundation, and England looks up in alarm. He soon relaxes again, though, as he sees France swinging his legs away from the frame and aiming his body toward safety. Slowly, he lowers himself carefully onto the floorboards. He eyes the other Nation warily, as if it is his first time really seeing him.

For a painfully awkward moment, all they can do is stare.

And then England explodes.

"Why the _fuck_ are you here? How did you fucking manage to get back to London and—"

"I wanted to talk to you," France interrupts gently, fiddling with his fingers. Suddenly, he sounds vulnerable, so vulnerable, standing right there with the weight of an unspoken guilt upon his shoulders. "I just... I just thought... you might be happier to see me after so long..."

His heart clenches.

_Oh, God._

Suddenly and uncomfortably self-aware, England lowers his voice and tries to soften the blow. "Look, I _am_—" he is— "but why couldn't you just have telephoned me? And—"

"They would never have let me."

"So your solution was to _run off_? Alone?"

"I took the bus, Arthur. It was not that difficult once I managed to escape from the small town they kept me in. I am _not_ useless." Hurt colors Francis's expression shortly before it disappears, replaced by the familiar feigned aloofness England has grown to hate. "Even if they had let me call you, they would have been listening in the entire time—and I need some privacy between us. Besides... I want to talk with you in person."

Bewilderment. The only thing England can possibly feel at that moment. And perhaps something else too. Something warmer.

"Why the hell did you feel the need to do this?"

France closes his eyes. "I had nothing to lose. You cannot possibly have any idea of how I felt... for all those months... trapped—"

"Were you hurt in any way?" England cuts in. His voice is tight.

This time, France is unable to stop the surprise from seeping onto his face. "N-No. Nothing like that."

"Ah, I see."

The relief in Arthur's voice is palpable, and he makes no attempt to hide it. Francis swallows.

Leaning back against the wall, he runs a hand through his hair, almost as if it would make an ounce of difference. It does not. His hair remains every bit as unkempt as it was before.

"So," he says reluctantly, shuffling his feet. "Are you planning on reporting me?"

"Oh, bloody hell, Francis. Of course not. It's just..." He rubs his head, knowing that his sleep deprivation will catch up with him sooner or later. "You're real, right? I'm not hallucinating?"

"Definitely real."

"Sorry, just making sure."

France peers at him curiously, then lowers his eyes. A strange tension appears to bunch his shoulders as he speaks, even as another part of him seems to relax.

"So... you trust me, then?"

Right at that moment, the floorboards beneath them let out a threateningly loud creak. England swears and glances toward the staircase nervously. Pointedly, he ignores the question. "I believe we should evacuate this place before the building caves in on itself. Come on."

For some reason, Francis looks as if he had been slapped. "Why do you keep dodging my questions?"

_Shit._ "Why are you up here in this building?" Arthur counters desperately, hoping to buy some time. "Don't tell me you've got selective amnesia and forgotten where I live."

"No." France's gaze has turned to steel again, all traces of weakness gone in an instant. "I came here because I happened to see something strange in the wreckage. Is there something wrong with that?"

England's heart skips a beat—he did not expect an answer. "No, I never said that. So what did you see?"

"This."

Stepping aside to allow the other Nation a better view, France nods to a bundle of leather and steel lying at the spot where the floor ended and open air began. England raises an eyebrow. It appears to be nothing more than a sword, encased in some sort of ornately decorated sheath. "I never expected to see this again," Francis murmurs. He does not seem happy about its reunion with him. "When I was walking down the street and this happened to catch my eye, I... I could never have left it alone."

Unusually tense now, he meets England's eyes and waits in silent anticipation. Arthur says nothing. _Is this supposed to be important?_ he wonders. _And if it is, why isn't he explaining? Does he _expect_ me to know? Or does he—_

It comes back all at once, these memories.

The pain.

The hurt.

_The loss._

He staggers back.

_OH, FUCK NO, NOT THIS AGAIN—_

"Arthur?" France presses, alarmed. "Are you..."

_Blood pulses at the corner of his vision. All of a sudden, he is gone, __whisked away, taken back through the years to a time of fire and muskets and his own __crushed pride. T__rampled, all beneath the boots of traitors who called themselves patriots. Piece by piece, it all begins to sink in._

_And then his shoulder starts burning._

"I'm fine," England croaks, backing away toward the staircase. "I'm _fine_. Let's go."

_He remembers the pain vividly, so __vividly, corkscrewing through skin and muscle and sinew and bone. Leaving the tissue to collapse inward like a crumbling snowbank. The burning feels so intense that for a moment, he is almost convinced of the flame eating away at his flesh, but then he touches his shoulder and his fingers come away red._

Abruptly, the floor lurches beneath him. Only once he sees France stumble does he understand that this is not a product of his disconcerted mind, but reality. Struggling to regain his bearing, England grips the staircase railings and catches his breath. _This building is going to collapse any moment now,_ he realizes in a panic, _and we're about to go down with it, we're both going to die—_

"You must be joking," France says in disbelief. "You are not _fine_, and you know it. Could you tell me why you—why you just—"

"Not now," England growls. His head is still spinning from the flashbacks, and he hates it. "Move."

A wooden beam falls from the ceiling, crashing into the floorboards between them and shaking the structure from wall to wall. France flinches, but does not budge an inch. "I will, as soon as you answer my questions."

"Fine, then. It happened because of the sword." Impatience begins to build inside him again. "Now let's _go_."

"You just told me the obvious," France points out. "If you are not quite ready to discuss it yet, then at least... at least respond to my first question. Tell me if you trust me or not. Please."

England pauses. Yet again, he detects the other man's attempt at sounding detached—but for the first time, he senses the desperation breaking through.

_Just tell him,_ a small voice whispers.

"I need more time," he mumbles unconvincingly.

"More time? _More time?_" France starts to laugh, even as the walls begin to split and crack around them. "Friend, what I asked was a yes or no question. Not an essay prompt."

_For me, it is! _he wants to yell. But he can only stammer. "It's—it's not what you think—I can explain—"

"Look, I can make things easier for you right now," France interrupts. "You think those people you listen to have any idea of what Nations are, let alone how they function? Well, they are wrong. How could Vichy alter my identity? How could _governments_ change my very nature? And as for Pétain, his rhetoric and his actions—his beliefs had their precedent, and they did not emerge from a vacuum. If anything..." Here, he sighs. "If anything, I suppose they were a part of me all along. Just like everything else that made up my existence."

The floor trembles again.

England looks away, shaking. "Francis..."

"You could lie, if it makes you feel any better. But I refuse to leave until you give me an answer." France's voice breaks—once, then twice, but he grits his teeth and continues on. "An anchor is all I need, and all I will ask of you. So now—_do you trust me_?"

_Say yes,_ the voice insists.

But England says nothing.

France's face hardens, and he holds out his hands, as if in a plea. "Arthur, _please_."

Beneath the floorboards, a series of loud snapping noises reaches their ears. The room suddenly dips into a sharp incline, and unable to find his footing, France is forced to drop onto one knee for balance.

_Say yes, you fuckhead._

So England opens his mouth, tries to form the word, feels it rolling on the tip of his tongue like a tantalizing invitation. But still, no sound comes out.

_Why?_

The word is neither truth nor lie, just incomplete—but he has no time for sincerity, and even less for games. The only thing he can do is stare, stare into the void, into the hard desperation behind Francis's eyes. Those ocean depths that hide beneath ice sheets and Arctic winters.

_When did this happen?_ he wonders, upset. _He shouldn't be like this. When did this happen to my—_

"For fuck's sake, Arthur!" Francis yells at him, eyes flashing. "Just _look_ at me and _say_ something! _Anything!_"

Alarmed at the intensity in his voice, England tries once again to form words.

But it is already too late.

Below them, the floor lets out one final shudder. Cracks open up at the edge of the room, startled blue gaze meets his. And then the ground beneath France's feet drops away, no longer supported by its faithful crutches. The last thing he sees before Francis disappears is his face—eyes wide, complexion pale, a trace of regret lingering in the midst of his anger. A frightened cry, the crunch of snapping wood, and falling.

Then a deafening crash.

Silence.

A torturous silence.

The most empty silence he has ever heard.

England is still staring. His heartbeat is fast, his pulse is erratic, everything feels strange and unnatural and it all starts to amalgamate together the longer he stands. Panic swells inside him, anguished and feverish, rising in his throat like a hot air balloon. Struggling to escape through his windpipe and out into the cold, lonely world.

So he lets it.

"_Francis!_" he screams.

The only response he receives is an echo from the void.

He barely remembers tearing down the stairs _(you fucking twat, you should have just said yes)_ or racing for the site of the impact as fast as he can _(pull him away, pull him away, you could have pulled him away!)_. All he knows is that when he finally sees Francis, lying in the middle of the smashed floorboards, his heart practically stops.

_No,_ he thinks, kneeling beside him in the debris, _no, no, no, no—_

Francis is breathing, still breathing, and his eyes are open, but they are glazed over from pain and seem to pass right through Arthur's figure. A series of cuts line his elbow, deep and shallow, long and short, squeezing out the same blood that drips down his arm. His cheek is bruised, and one of his shoes is missing.

"Francis? Can you hear me?" England pleads.

No response.

The spot where he landed is, thankfully, clear of most wreckage, leaving behind only a patch of soft earth. But the fall must have still been significant—he can tell that much. _Ten, fifteen feet or so,_ he guesses. Miraculously, there do not seem to be any fractured bones, but then he reminds himself not to count his chickens so soon.

When half a minute passes and there is still no reaction, England considers lightly shaking his shoulders.

Then he hears a faint groan.

A flicker of hope rekindles inside him. "Francis, are you..."

Slowly, painfully, France uses his good arm to push himself off his back and into a sitting position. England watches him carefully for any sign of serious injury, but to his relief, his earlier observations appear to have been proven correct. The scratches and the bruises and even the splinters should be nothing a couple days cannot fix—he is a Nation, after all.

And then France pulls off his left sock, the one without a shoe, and grimaces.

His ankle has begun swelling. _Sprained,_ England recognizes immediately. Despite himself, he cannot help but feel relieved at the fact that it is nowhere as severe as he had feared. "I landed on my feet for the most part," France murmurs weakly, not looking up. "I did try to shield myself, though. Did not work out well."

He holds up his hands, dotted with tiny splinters, and England winces.

"I can try to help," he offers gruffly, nodding to the sprain. "I don't have any ice packs on me, but I might have enough magic to accelerate the healing."

France makes a small choked sound of surprise as England places his cold hand on his ankle, closing his eyes and muttering something under his breath. A pale green glow begins emanating from his fingers. Beneath his palm, he can feel the torn ligaments starting to mend.

"There." Satisfied, England sits back. "Should be better now."

It is only then that he notices how flushed the other Nation's face is, how his brows knit together in confusion, how his eyes flit to the ground every now and then, as if afraid of something in Arthur's gaze. Notices how he tries to pull up his defenses again, the defenses England never realized he had, and push his emotions back, back, back.

_Out of sight—_

_Gone—_

_Down, down, down__—_

He fails.

And perhaps that is what separates them, at least in this moment. Perhaps that is why Francis's expression is filled with guilt, true guilt, for the first time in years.

Perhaps that is why the ice in his eyes finally melts into tears.

Why he draws his knees up to his chest.

Why he starts to cry.

It is quiet, too quiet, the sniffling and the whimpering and the labored breathing, so unlike the loud sobs Arthur is used to that something breaks inside his chest. A part of him wants so badly to wrap his arms around him, brush the tears off his face and hug him until the night is over. And he almost does, but then Francis heaves in a trembling breath and speaks.

"I'm sorry."

Suddenly, England feels like crying too.

"I really am," he whispers, eyes still on the ground, head in his arms. "All these years, I've been doing nothing but hurting you. And yet I still blame everything on you."

"That's not true."

"Yes, it is, Arthur. I've thought this over more times than you can imagine." He hiccups before continuing. "You know why I ran away to find you? You know why I took the risk only now, of all times? It was because of your brother Scotland. It took a humiliating amount of begging, but eventually they told me I could send one telephone call to anyone they approved of. So I did. I chose him. I knew they would be listening in on the conversation the entire time, but I could not care less. I told him everything. All of it—about my situation, about you. And you know what he said?"

England's forehead creases. "What?"

Bitterly, France laughs. "He gave me the harsh truth. Told me I was being selfish in blaming you, that you had more on your plate than I could understand. I was angry at first. Hung up on him. Thought that my oldest friend should have at least comforted me in the face of my uncertainty. But then I mulled over his words, and I realized that he was right all along. Suddenly, I wanted to apologize and talk things over with you. When I saw you here, though... something came over me. Some frustration I thought I had buried. And then..."

He trails off.

"Maybe," Francis murmurs, "maybe... I do have more in common with Vichy than I care to admit. Longing to return to an mythical era of traditionalist moral glory—a bit like how I yearned for a version of myself that never existed. The version of myself capable of following orders without question, hellbent on destroying _you_. And when I failed, lashing out was the only option I had."

England is about to respond with a reassurance when he is reminded of something else, something in the space of his memories that he has tried hard to forget.

Because as he relives that fateful dawn for the thousandth time, he finally understands.

It had always been a nagging feeling at the back of his mind, the feeling that France had been genuine in his unwillingness to kill him. He supposed it made sense—both of their minds had already been poisoned by doubts by then, perhaps treasonous doubts considering their status and circumstance. And to this day, he can still hardly pinpoint what exactly led him to spur Francis on.

Blind rage, certainly.

Mockery.

Resentment.

A need to fill that aching silence in his mind. A desperation to regain meaning among the flying banners of his youth, the promise that pain meant nothing next to cowardice. The urge to appease the darker side of him, the side that craved for the ability to tempt Francis into violence as well as lust, test his boundaries until they snapped, see where his loyalties truly lay.

And most of all, revenge.

Some part of him must have known. How badly it would hurt, for both of them involved. Yet he encouraged him anyway.

Gathering his thoughts, England clears his throat at last.

"You shouldn't blame it all on yourself. And that's not just my pity speaking, either."

With a sad smile, France looks up. His cheek is still wet with tears.

"Oh, really? Is that why you hated me for so long? Why you were so—so _traumatized_—by that damn sword? Was that really for _no reason at all_?"

_The sword,_ he realizes.

It should have fallen with him somewhere nearby.

He scans the wreckage for only a few seconds before his eyes catch on steel, glinting with rust in the fading moonlight. The moment France follows his gaze, his expression darkens and he attempts to stand up.

"I—I should get rid of it," he gasps, struggling to climb back on his feet. "Donate it to a museum, maybe. Certainly old enough to be—"

"_You're_ bloody old enough to be in a museum," England retorts, trying to lighten the mood. "Doesn't mean I should donate you as well. Look, if you really want to keep it, then..."

"No." He shakes his head. "I never want to see it again, for as long as I live."

The answer is resolute enough for England to raise an eyebrow, but he does not question it. "Well, I certainly have no objections."

"And I—" France winces, breathing heavily, trying not to put weight on his injured ankle— "I have to—"

What England does next surprises Francis, and perhaps even himself. Stepping forward, he takes France's hand. The other Nation's eyes widen, but he allows himself to be gently pulled to his feet, Arthur's other arm around his waist. Together, they stand. Despite this, Francis is still unsteady, and he leans into England with his face buried in his neck. "Thank you," he breathes.

England's heart quickens, and he tries to pull the other man closer.

France stops him.

"You are wrong," he mutters, looking away, gritting his teeth. "I do not deserve any of this."

"For God's sake, Francis, you _know_ this world isn't black and white. Blaming yourself instead of me is just exchanging one end of the spectrum for another."

"And why is that wrong?"

"Because I'm not innocent," England sighs. "Hell, the last time I killed you was only a century ago, when I shot your neck open at Waterloo. Are you still going to tell me that everything that's happened is your fault?"

France stiffens. "N-No. But..."

Suddenly losing his balance, he pitches forward, forcing England to backpedal several steps through the dust with him. Flustered, Francis's face turns red. "Maybe not everything, but so much is," he whispers, closing his cold fingers over Arthur's bruised knuckles. "For so long, I never even stopped to wonder about the toll the war took on you, too preoccupied with my own petty delusions. And when I finally did... it was already too late."

"Francis—"

"I faulted you for your bravery, scorned you for your resilience, and condemned you for doing the only thing you could have done. And I'm so, _so_ sorry." His breathing is coming quick again, sobs wracking his body anew as he pushes himself deeper into Arthur's chest, forcing their steps further and further into the debris. "What is happening in the war, Arthur? With the Soviet offensive on the Eastern Front? The Axis forces that were withdrawn into Tunisia? What has happened in the year since I left? What has happened to _you_? If only I—"

"Francis, wait," England says desperately as his back is pressed against a wall of rubble. His voice is shaking, and he is certain the other Nation can hear the heartbreak there as he speaks. "They—they've told you _nothing_?"

"No. _Nothing._" Tears are rolling down his chin, his neck, the folds of his coat, yet France does nothing to wipe them away. "I was nothing short of a prisoner. I had never felt so _humiliated_—"

Quiet anger sparks to life within him, and England reaches forward. Before he can stop himself, he tenderly cups Francis's face in his trembling hand. His skin is warm. So warm.

"I..." Arthur begins, then hesitates. France is gazing at him with that strange mix of fear and hope again, as if he cannot quite decide, and it makes him feel lightheaded, he can barely even think straight or form a coherent thought, and maybe that is the reason he is considering the words currently occupying his head. "I..."

_Am I only saying this because I want it to be true?_

_No,_ another part of his mind supplies. _Wherever my suspicions originated—wherever the damn sleep talking came from—that's irrelevant. You've been judging him not by his actions but his subconscious, and you need to stop. What matters right now __is that he's standing in front of you—he's real, real as you—and he's waiting._

_You're saying this because it makes sense with what you've known up until now. _

And it does.

"I believe you," England says softly without the slightest regret. France sucks in a sharp breath. "I know you would never betray us."

A heavy burden seems to be lifted off Francis's shoulders at that moment, because suddenly, he looks a bit younger, a bit less tired, a bit more like he used to be.

"Arthur..." he whispers.

His face is flushed, by a mere tint; his lips parted, just barely. The word no longer feels like a name but a part of something greater, and England finds for a second that he cannot breathe. It feels like a blessing.

An invitation.

A plea.

Carefully, as if he were handling delicate silverware, Arthur tilts Francis's chin up.

And he kisses him.

They remind him of all he had before the war, those soft, pale lips, all he loved and all he cherished that was forgotten in the void. Before long, Francis starts kissing him back, hands curled in Arthur's hair as they press against each other and struggle together in a desperate attempt to _remember_. When they break apart, England is already pulling them to the ground, fingers tracing the lines of the other man's face and committing them to memory. The shadows of the ruined yard loom over them, so far away from the empty road. So _irrelevant_ that it might as well have belonged to another universe.

To Arthur's alarm, Francis's eyes are welling with fresh tears as he lays him down on the ground and leans in for another kiss. But instead of pushing him away, Francis hugs him closer and brings their lips together once again, feeling England's knees close on either side of his hips.

"There _is_ something wrong with me, isn't there?" he gasps, choking back his tears. Arthur can feel his hot breath, coming hard and fast on his neck. "For... for wanting this_ so much_?"

"Can't do this on your own, you know," England murmurs. "There would have to be something wrong with me too."

Francis watches him for a long moment, his gaze unreadable, before he gives a low, sad chuckle.

"Sounds about right."

Arthur shoots him a curious look, but does not respond. Instead, he runs a finger down the side of Francis's face, his jawline, brushing away stray tears before moving on to his coat while heat continues to rise in his cheeks. His hands are awkward, almost clumsy as he begins unbuttoning. "What do you think is so wrong about this, anyway?"

"Well... maybe not _wrong_, exactly." Tentatively, Francis wraps his arms around the other Nation's neck and sighs. "Just... a bit off."

"I forgave you, didn't I?"

"Is that really the best we can do? Forgiveness?" Suddenly, Francis's expression is pained. "You've said those words to me before, and so have I. We have both hurt and forgiven each other a thousand times over, and yet we still end up in the same place eventually. Isn't it time to start doing something else? Something more?"

"Like what?" Arthur growls. He stops fumbling with the buttons to stare, a challenge in his eyes. "There are some things I can't answer, Francis. But if you want me to stop..."

The shadow in Francis's gaze lingers for a split second longer, like a starved animal waiting to be fed. Then abruptly, it vanishes. Something pushes it out of sight, something more familiar, consuming and replacing it with a different sentiment. A new beast entirely.

Desire.

"No," he breathes. "Don't stop."

For a moment, Arthur studies his face once again.

And then he undoes the last button, flings the coat open wide and unzips the sweater underneath in one swift motion. Francis barely has time to gape before Arthur is upon him, grazing his teeth lightly along a thin trail of heat from chin to collarbone. He hears panting even before he starts pressing kisses down the length of his bare chest, and then a moan, low and temptingly soft.

"Oh, for—"

Francis has to catch his breath right then and there, and Arthur loves it, loves how warm his skin feels and the way he trembles for his touch as he slides his hand down to his hips. _Please,_ he begs, to no one in particular, _just let us have this one moment—_

He is almost about to undo his belt when he notices the numbers on his watch.

_Half past five._

His heart sinks.

Only then does he realize that the light reflecting off his watch is not moonlight, but the first stirrings of dawn, filled with the grim promise of what lies ahead. At once, he stiffens. The other Nation glances curiously at him, but does not move. _I can't believe I forgot something this important,_ he seethes, internally cursing himself. _I didn't even get any sleep!_

Abruptly, England leaps to his feet.

"I just remembered something," he explains hurriedly, the guilt apparent in his voice as soon as he sees France's face fall. "I'm sorry, but I need to go."

"_What?_"

"There's a crucial operation set to take place tomorrow at the crack of dawn. Preparations are underway, but I should help as well." There is more he wants to say—the operation means so much more to him than that—but he forces himself to continue. "I need to get back to the house to pick things up before I head off. You can stay there for the time being, since I assume you know the way back."

_And hopefully,_ he adds,_ if all goes well, you won't need to remain there for long._

France stares, as if unconvinced, but says nothing. With one last apologetic look—_I promise you'll understand why I'm doing this soon_—England is about to turn around and leave.

Suddenly, he hears him scramble to his feet. He tenses, almost expecting him to block his path.

Instead, he hobbles over on his good ankle and hesitates.

Then, tentatively, Francis embraces him from behind.

The hug is somehow both bittersweet and everything he could have possibly wanted all at once, and for a second, he forgets how to breathe. He hugs back, warmth fills his senses, his coat pocket suddenly feels lighter and then it is over. Francis's soft arms are gone from his waist, even as his instincts scream for him to lean back into their comfort.

But he cannot, for his duties lie elsewhere.

And so he takes one step away from him, the man whom he once respected and doubted and feared and resented, the man he is unsure what to make of now, so weary and so desperate and so seemingly _defeated_. He sees France's gaze following him as he backs toward the road, as if asking _When will you be back_ and _What will happen to us_, except the answers are so far out of his reach and there are too many lies surrounding them. All England understands is that he needs to leave.

_(He had to leave too, that morning after stabbing him.)_

"I'll see you later," Arthur calls out, voice cracking. _And I'm sorry too,_ he knows he should say, _sorry for all the things I've done and didn't do for the last four __years we've been surviving through this hell. __I swear I never meant to hurt you._

_(He hadn't wanted to "hurt" him, either, or "impale him through the shoulder", or "tear into a blood vessel and __rupture his subclavian artery".)_

And yet he says nothing. Neither does Francis respond with anything but a quick nod and a ducked head.

He looks so small, standing there, as if the snowdrifts are still pulling him under, even in wakefulness and even in summer.

_(At first, he'd tried to turn away. Come to his senses. Ignore the provocations, such as they were. __B__ut something must have finally broken through inside him, because a__ flash of anger was all it took._

_(And then he attacked. _

_(He'd been aiming for one of his vital organs, one final overkill for the glory of the bloodbath, __when at the last moment, his resolve crumbled and his __hand faltered. __But by then, it was already too late._

_(He missed, but not by enough.)_

As he steps back onto the road and away from the ruined mansion, England senses sunlight on his face for the first time in what seems like an eternity.

He keeps walking.

_(In a burst of panic, he'd wrenched the sword back out. It was a mistake, and p__erhaps Arthur would have seen the regret on his face if he hadn't been so absorbed by the pain. __The blood was no longer just a trickle now but a steady stream, dripping and pooling on the ground below._

_(He should have known better.)_

Just before Francis disappears from sight, Arthur pauses. _You were wrong to call me brave,_ he thinks quietly. _Because I'm not. __Not when it comes to you._

_(In the end, he'd fled. __Left Arthur in the dust to slowly bleed out._

_(Let Arthur die._

_(Abandoned the sword, right where it had fallen.)_

For a moment, he wishes that dawn had not come so early, that the sun is not so golden, that his face is not quite so illuminated by the fire in the sky. But he knows that this is a childish wish—almost as childish as delaying the inevitability of his responsibilities.

_Get a move on, Britain._

And so he turns, sprinting back to the house without looking back once.

* * *

.

.

.

.

.

* * *

_You promised._

Down the hallway he goes, half-limping, half-stumbling, nearly tripping over his own feet as he tries to ignore the pounding guilt in his ears. England has long since departed before him, leaving him a window of opportunity to put an end to the questions haunting him. But now that he is finally here, the only thing consuming his mind is shame.

In France's hand, tightly clenched, is the key to the attic. Fresh from Arthur's pocket.

_You promised him. Not overtly, but you did. You apologized, told him you wanted to change, and for a moment in time, he trusted you. For a moment in time, you made him doubt who he thought you were._

Except that England had been right all along. Because after all these years, he still remains a liar at heart, no matter who or what he ends up betraying.

_A traitor._

He hobbles into the dining room, scans the vicinity, grabs a chair. Drags it behind him all the way to the trapdoor. By the time he is holding the padlock in his hand, his fingers are shaking so badly that he can barely keep the key from clattering to the floor. _Please work,_ he begs, turning it as he slides it in. _Please work._

_Please don't work._

_Please work._

_Please don't—_

The padlock clicks open.

A tingle of excitement races up his spine, even as a strong sense of foreboding washes over him like a tidal wave. In his mind, France pictures a small, windowless crawlspace, seemingly empty save for the innocuous chest in the corner. Perhaps he would open it to discover the answers to his long-held doubts, or perhaps he would essentially be opening a Pandora's box of his own. _Either way, there's no going back._

Carefully, he removes the padlock and pushes on the trapdoor.

With a loud creak, it opens, rusted hinges coming to a rest on the floor above as France squints up into the darkness. Impatiently, he begins waiting for his eyes to adjust. Ten seconds pass. Twenty. Forty. A minute.

Nothing happens.

_Oh well,_ he decides. _What could go wrong?_

Hauling himself up is as painstaking as it is slow, especially while he struggles not to put too much weight on his swollen ankle. When he finally manages to climb onto the attic floor, he has to stop to gasp for breath. _Goddammit. I've been out of shape for far too long._

Dusting himself off, France stands. Cautiously, as if entering a lion's den, he begins shuffling forward.

He nearly impales himself after the first step.

Something is abruptly looming out of the shadows before him, something long and sharp and pointing straight at him, and startled, he retreats several steps back. Just then, the object catches the faint light from the entrance, and he relaxes as he realizes that it is only a spear.

A haphazardly-placed spear.

A haphazardly-placed spear on a rack.

_A... weapons rack?_

He steps aside to allow more light to filter through, staring intently at the dim outline of the other objects beside the spear. _Sword. Crossbow. Battle axe. Another spear._ Age has clearly not served them well, as evident by the layers upon layers of accumulating rust. And judging from the sheer amount of dust on the rack, the weapons have likely not been touched in years.

_Arthur's weapons._

Some of them are ones he recognizes, and the longer he looks at them, the more the memories start to rush back, memories of death and injury and a deep-seated hatred that has run for centuries. At first, a certain tension flashes through his mind—_why does he still have them, why are they displayed on these racks, does he feel proud of the times he hurt me_—until, gradually, the uncertainty gives way to realization. For the first time, he feels like he understands something, and it makes him even more ashamed than before.

Silently, France slumps to the ground and buries his head in his hands.

_Of course_ England is no more proud of them than he is. Why else would he lock them away here, never to be picked up again? The vague contours of what look like storage boxes lie around the perimeter of the attic—most likely the only reason why Arthur still carries the key in his coat pocket. Even though he knows he should check their contents, just in case, he is too drained to do anything but contemplate. And—what was it England had said, back at the scene of the wreckage?

_Because I'm not innocent._

Hot tears are threatening to overflow again, and he desperately blinks them back as much as he can.

_Francis, you fool,_ he hisses to himself. _You never learn._

He should never have ventured up here, into the dark. Trading Arthur's newly-earned trust for _this_ was the most senseless thing he could have done, and he is regretting it dearly.

Numbly, as if dazed, France crawls over to the attic exit and drops clumsily onto the stool below. All of a sudden, the light outside no longer seems quite as inviting. _I should get some rest,_ he muses, slamming the trapdoor behind him in an attempt to distract himself.

And he almost does, until he notices a piece of paper taped to the nearest wall. Something that he had somehow missed.

A letter.

Suddenly, he wants to die.

France tears it off the wall at once, heart climbing, pulse racing, his panicked thoughts reaching a thousand miles per hour. _No, no, no, no._ But there is only one person who could have authored the note, and only one person whom it could have been intended for.

**_Francis—_**

_**Look, I know you took the key.**_

**_Before you do something stupid_****_—_****_no, I'm not angry at you._**

He stares. Feels lightheaded, like he is back in the air again, falling through the clouds from an impossible height.

_**The fact of the matter is, **__**I've got worse things to be angry about. And b**__**esides, I can't really blame you. I know I've been keeping too many secrets from you these past few years, and I think you've had enough of that.**_

_**So, I've decided that I'm going to come clean.**_

_**Right now.**_

_**I might not have much time before I go, but it should be enough for me to tell you everything.**_

_This cannot be real._

But he continues reading, trembling as he goes.

_**Firstly, to give you a summarized account of the happenings in the war: **__**the 6th Army in Stalingrad has finally surrendered, **__**we have managed to launch successful invasions of both Sicily and Italy, and Soviet troops have been largely victorious **__**on the Eastern Front.**_

**_Now, here's the part I've been dying to tell you for over a year._**

**_We've been working on an operation to liberate your country._**

**_An operation starting tomorrow._**

**_At the break of dawn, we land at Normandy. We're hoping to unite the beaches into one front before reinforcements arrive, and eventually recapture as many towns and cities as possible from German hands._**

**_It won't be bloody easy. But I haven't fought my way here just to give up now._**

**_Francis... whatever you might find inside that attic, please don't think too much of it. I can't predict how you'll react, nor do I claim to know what you were thinking when you took that key. But you certainly don't need to add on to your worries, especially now._**

**_The next time we cross paths, may we meet as free nations._**

**_Take the advice you gave me last year, _****_and take care of yourself for me._**

**_Stay safe._**

**_When I come back, _****_I promise I'll buy you another coat._**

There is no signature.

Alone, awash in the glaring light, Francis bites his lip and draws in a deep, shaky breath. Skims over the letter again and again, as if doing so would help settle his nerves. As if it would bring Arthur closer to him. _Why?_ he wants to ask. _Why did you tell me this? To give me hope? Even if it crushes me in the end?_

Hope.

Something he has not felt in a long time.

He thinks—back, back, back, to a summer just like this, the night he appeared on England's doorstep seeking refuge with a suitcase in hand and nowhere to go. To the years he spent chasing static, only to end up devastated with the dead ends he unearthed. To the silence that suffocated them both before it wound up inside like a parasite.

And suddenly, he knows what he wants to do.

At once, he races for the telephone.

* * *

"Hello?"

France holds the handset closer to his ear, hoping that someone on the other end would eventually pick up his call. As he waits, his mind wanders back to Arthur's letter and its brief closing sentence—_Stay safe_, it said. Carefully, he tests out his injured ankle and winces. The accelerated healing from England's magic is doing wonders, coupled with the fact of him being a Nation, but it still might not be enough.

_It has to be,_ he decides stubbornly. _I cannot simply sit around while he fights to liberate my country. There has to be something I can do, something I could—_

"Hello?" a tired voice sounds in his ear.

His heart skips a beat.

"Greetings," he begins quickly. "I would like to speak with General de Gaulle—"

"Who are you?" the unfamiliar man interrupts. Before France can respond, he continues, "And to your previous question, no, you cannot."

"Can I send a message, then?"

There is a long, awkward pause.

"Tell me who you are first," the voice sighs.

_Arthur, for what it's worth, I promise to __stay safe to the best of my ability,_ he vows, closing his eyes. _But I have to do this, and I hope you will one day understand why._

_In the meantime, thank you. Thank you for understanding._

And he means it.

Perhaps the other Nation never realized, but his letter was the anchor he needed. He no longer feels like sinking—and somehow, he knows the snowdrifts will not haunt him that night.

And, at least for now, he is setting his anchor by a different shore.

Turning his attention back to the call, he starts to explain.

* * *

_**Fin.**_

* * *

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

* * *

_after yorktown, he kept the sword._

_bloodied, dirtied, forsaken by the man __who cherished it the most. usher of bad dreams, __harbinger of death. __the supplier __that dealt only in pain, for once and forever._

_he kept it._

_for the longest time, he let it sit in his storage closet, __and he doesn't know why. __many years later, as manpower turned to steam and foe turned to something else, __he __finally left his old home and the old weapon behind. _

_that day, he told himself that he would never see it again._

_unbeknownst to him, across the channel, someone else was telling himself the same thing._


End file.
